DOAN’S CROSSING
It was a nice open country between the Wichita and Pease rivers. On
reaching the latter, we found an easy stage of water for crossing,
though there was every evidence that the river had been on a recent
rise, the débris of a late freshet littering the cutbank, while
high-water mark could be easily noticed on the trees along the river
bottom. Summer had advanced until the June freshets were to be
expected, and for the next month we should be fortunate if our advance
was not checked by floods and falling weather. The fortunate stage of
the Pease encouraged us, however, to hope that possibly Red River, two
days’ drive ahead, would be fordable. The day on which we expected to
reach it, Flood set out early to look up the ford which had then been
in use but a few years, and which in later days was known as Doan’s
Crossing on Red River. Our foreman returned before noon and reported a
favorable stage of water for the herd, and a new ferry that had been
established for wagons. With this good news, we were determined to put
that river behind us in as few hours as possible, for it was a common
occurrence that a river which was fordable at night was the reverse by
daybreak. McCann was sent ahead with the wagon, but we held the saddle
horses with us to serve as leaders in taking the water at the ford.
The cattle were strung out in trailing manner nearly a mile, and on
reaching the river near the middle of the afternoon, we took the water
without a halt or even a change of horses. This boundary river on the
northern border of Texas was a terror to trail drovers, but on our
reaching it, it had shallowed down, the flow of water following
several small channels. One of these was swimming, with shallow bars
intervening between the channels. But the majestic grandeur of the
river was apparent on every hand,--with its red, bluff banks, the
sediment of its red waters marking the timber along its course, while
the driftwood, lodged in trees and high on the banks, indicated what
might be expected when she became sportive or angry. That she was
merciless was evident, for although this crossing had been in use only
a year or two when we forded, yet five graves, one of which was less
than ten days made, attested her disregard for human life. It can
safely be asserted that at this and lower trail crossings on Red
River, the lives of more trail men were lost by drowning than on all
other rivers together. Just as we were nearing the river, an unknown
horseman from the south overtook our herd. It was evident that he
belonged to some through herd and was looking out the crossing. He
made himself useful by lending a hand while our herd was fording, and
in a brief conversation with Flood, informed him that he was one of
the hands with a “Running W” herd, gave the name of Bill Mann as their
foreman, the number of cattle they were driving, and reported the herd
as due to reach the river the next morning. He wasted little time with
us, but recrossed the river, returning to his herd, while we grazed
out four or five miles and camped for the night.
I shall never forget the impression left in my mind of that first
morning after we crossed Red River into the Indian lands. The country
was as primitive as in the first day of its creation. The trail led up
a divide between the Salt and North forks of Red River. To the
eastward of the latter stream lay the reservation of the Apaches,
Kiowas, and Comanches, the latter having been a terror to the
inhabitants of western Texas. They were a warlike tribe, as the
records of the Texas Rangers and government troops will verify, but
their last effective dressing down was given them in a fight at Adobe
Walls by a party of buffalo hunters whom they hoped to surprise. As we
wormed our way up this narrow divide, there was revealed to us a
panorama of green-swarded plain and timber-fringed watercourse, with
not a visible evidence that it had ever been invaded by civilized man,
save cattlemen with their herds. Antelope came up in bands and
gratified their curiosity as to who these invaders might be, while old
solitary buffalo bulls turned tail at our approach and lumbered away
to points of safety. Very few herds had ever passed over this route,
but buffalo trails leading downstream, deep worn by generations of
travel, were to be seen by hundreds on every hand. We were not there
for a change of scenery or for our health, so we may have overlooked
some of the beauties of the landscape. But we had a keen eye for the
things of our craft. We could see almost back to the river, and
several times that morning noticed clouds of dust on the horizon.
Flood noticed them first. After some little time the dust clouds arose
clear and distinct, and we were satisfied that the “Running W” herd
had forded and were behind us, not more than ten or twelve miles away.
At dinner that noon, Flood said he had a notion to go back and pay
Mann a visit. “Why, I’ve not seen ‘Little-foot’ Bill Mann,” said our
foreman, as he helped himself to a third piece of “fried chicken”
(bacon), “since we separated two years ago up at Ogalalla on the
Platte. I’d just like the best in the world to drop back and sleep in
his blankets one night and complain of his chuck. Then I’d like to
tell him how we had passed them, starting ten days’ drive farther
south. He must have been amongst those herds laying over on the
Brazos.”
“Why don’t you go, then?” said Fox Quarternight. “Half the outfit
could hold the cattle now with the grass and water we’re in at
present.”
“I’ll go you one for luck,” said our foreman. “Wrangler, rustle in
your horses the minute you’re through eating. I’m going visiting.”
We all knew what horse he would ride, and when he dropped his rope on
“Alazanito,” he had not only picked his own mount of twelve, but the
top horse of the entire _remuda_,--a chestnut sorrel, fifteen hands
and an inch in height, that drew his first breath on the prairies of
Texas. No man who sat him once could ever forget him. Now, when the
trail is a lost occupation, and reverie and reminiscence carry the
mind back to that day, there are friends and faces that may be
forgotten, but there are horses that never will be. There were
emergencies in which the horse was everything, his rider merely the
accessory. But together, man and horse, they were the force that made
it possible to move the millions of cattle which passed up and over
the various trails of the West.
When we had caught our horses for the afternoon, and Flood had saddled
and was ready to start, he said to us, “You fellows just mosey along
up the trail. I’ll not be gone long, but when I get back I shall
expect to find everything running smooth. An outfit that can’t run
itself without a boss ought to stay at home and do the milking. So
long, fellows!”
The country was well watered, and when rounded the cattle into the bed
ground that night, they were actually suffering from stomachs gorged
with grass and water. They went down and to sleep like tired children;
one man could have held them that night. We all felt good, and McCann
got up an extra spread for supper. We even had dried apples for
dessert. McCann had talked the storekeeper at Doan’s, where we got our
last supplies, out of some extras as a _pelon_. Among them was a can
of jam. He sprung this on us as a surprise. Bob Blades toyed with the
empty can in mingled admiration and disgust over a picture on the
paper label. It was a supper scene, every figure wearing full dress.
“Now, that’s General Grant,” said he, pointing with his finger, “and
this is Tom Ochiltree. I can’t quite make out this other duck, but I
reckon he’s some big auger--a senator or governor, maybe. Them old
girls have got their gall with them. That style of dress is what you
call _lo_ and _behold_. The whole passel ought to be ashamed. And they
seem to be enjoying themselves, too.”
Though it was a lovely summer night, we had a fire, and supper over,
the conversation ranged wide and free. As the wagon on the trail is
home, naturally the fire is the hearthstone, so we gathered and
lounged around it.
“The only way to enjoy such a fine night as this,” remarked Ash, “is
to sit up smoking until you fall asleep with your boots on. Between
too much sleep and just enough, there’s a happy medium which suits
me.”
“Officer,” inquired Wyatt Roundtree, trailing into the conversation
very innocently, “why is it that people who live up among those
Yankees always say ‘be’ the remainder of their lives?”
“What’s the matter with the word?” countered Officer.
“Oh, nothing, I reckon, only it sounds a little odd, and there’s a
tale to it.”
“A story, you mean,” said Officer, reprovingly.
“Well, I’ll tell it to you,” said Roundtree, “and then you can call it
to suit yourself. It was out in New Mexico where this happened. There
was a fellow drifted into the ranch where I was working, dead broke.
To make matters worse, he could do nothing; he wouldn’t fit anywhere.
Still, he was a nice fellow and we all liked him. Must have had a good
education, for he had good letters from people up North. He had worked
in stores and had once clerked in a bank, at least the letters said
so. Well, we put up a job to get him a place in a little town out on
the railroad. You all know how clannish Kentuckians are. Let two meet
who never saw each other before, and inside of half an hour they’ll be
chewing tobacco from the same plug and trying to loan each other
money.”
“That’s just like them,” interposed Fox Quarternight.
“Well, there was an old man lived in this town, who was the genuine
blend of bluegrass and Bourbon. If another Kentuckian came within
twenty miles of him, and he found it out, he’d hunt him up and they’d
hold a two-handed reunion. We put up the job that this young man
should play that he was a Kentuckian, hoping that the old man would
take him to his bosom and give him something to do. So we took him
into town one day, coached and fully posted how to act and play his
part. We met the old man in front of his place of business, and, after
the usual comment on the news over our way, weather, and other small
talk, we were on the point of passing on, when one of our own crowd
turned back and inquired, ‘Uncle Henry, have you met the young
Kentuckian who’s in the country?’
“‘No,’ said the old man, brightening with interest, ‘who is he and
where is he?’
“‘He’s in town somewhere,’ volunteered one of the boys. We pretended
to survey the street from where we stood, when one of the boys blurted
out, ‘Yonder he stands now. That fellow in front of the drug store
over there, with the hard-boiled hat on.’
“The old man started for him, angling across the street, in disregard
of sidewalks. We watched the meeting, thinking it was working all
right. We were mistaken. We saw them shake hands, when the old man
turned and walked away very haughtily. Something had gone wrong. He
took the sidewalk on his return, and when he came near enough to us,
we could see that he was angry and on the prod. When he came near
enough to speak, he said, ‘You think you’re smart, don’t you? He’s a
Kentuckian, is he? Hell’s full of such Kentuckians!’ And as he passed
beyond hearing he was muttering imprecations on us. The young fellow
joined us a minute later with the question, ‘What kind of a crank is
that you ran me up against?’
“‘He’s as nice a man as there is in this country,’ said one of the
crowd. ‘What did you say to him?’
“‘Nothing’; he came up to me, extended his hand, saying, “My young
friend, I understand that you’re from Kentucky.” “I be, sir,” I
replied, when he looked me in the eye and said, “You’re a G---- d----
liar,” and turned and walked away. Why, he must have wanted to insult
me. And then we all knew why our little scheme had failed. There was
food and raiment in it for him, but he would use that little word
‘be.’”
“Did any of you notice my saddle horse lie down just after we crossed
this last creek this afternoon?” inquired Rod Wheat.
“No; what made him lie down?” asked several of the boys.
“Oh, he just found a gopher hole and stuck his forefeet into it one at
a time, and then tried to pull them both out at once, and when he
couldn’t do it, he simply shut his eyes like a dying sheep and lay
down.”
“Then you’ve seen sheep die,” said the horse wrangler.
“Of course I have; a sheep can die any time he makes up his mind to by
simply shutting both eyes--then he’s a goner.”
Quince Forrest, who had brought in his horse to go out with the second
watch, he and Bob Blades having taken advantage of the foreman’s
absence to change places on guard for the night, had been listening to
the latter part of Wyatt’s yarn very attentively. We all hoped that he
would mount and ride out to the herd, for though he was a good
story-teller and meaty with personal experiences, where he thought
they would pass muster he was inclined to overcolor his statements. We
usually gave him respectful attention, but were frequently compelled
to regard him as a cheerful, harmless liar. So when he showed no
disposition to go, we knew we were in for one from him.
“When I was boss bull-whacker,” he began, “for a big army sutler at
Fort Concho, I used to make two round trips a month with my train. It
was a hundred miles to wagon from the freight point where we got our
supplies. I had ten teams, six and seven yoke to the team, and trail
wagons to each. I was furnished a night herder and a cook, saddle
horses for both night herder and myself. You hear me, it was a slam up
fine layout. We could handle three or four tons to the team, and with
the whole train we could chamber two car loads of anything. One day we
were nearing the fort with a mixed cargo of freight, when a messenger
came out and met us with an order from the sutler. He wanted us to
make the fort that night and unload. The mail buckboard had reported
us to the sutler as camped out back on a little creek about ten miles.
We were always entitled to a day to unload and drive back to camp,
which gave us good grass for the oxen, but under the orders the whips
popped merrily that afternoon, and when they all got well strung out,
I rode in ahead, to see what was up. Well, it seems that four
companies of infantry from Fort McKavett, which were out for field
practice, were going to be brought into this post to be paid three
months’ wages. This, with the troops stationed at Concho, would turn
loose quite a wad of money. The sutler called me into his office when
I reached the fort, and when he had produced a black bottle used for
cutting the alkali in your drinking water, he said, ‘Jack,’--he called
me Jack; my full name is John Quincy Forrest,--‘Jack, can you make the
round trip, and bring in two cars of bottled beer that will be on the
track waiting for you, and get back by pay day, the 10th?’
“I figured the time in my mind; it was twelve days.
“‘There’s five extra in it for each man for the trip, and I’ll make it
right with you,’ he added, as he noticed my hesitation, though I was
only making a mental calculation.
“‘Why, certainly, Captain,’ I said. ‘What’s that fable about the jack
rabbit and the land tarrapin?’ He didn’t know and I didn’t either, so
I said to illustrate the point: ‘Put your freight on a bull train, and
it always goes through on time. A race horse can’t beat an ox on a
hundred miles and repeat to a freight wagon.’ Well, we unloaded before
night, and it was pitch dark before we made camp. I explained the
situation to the men. We planned to go in empty in five days, which
would give us seven to come back loaded. We made every camp on time
like clockwork. The fifth morning we were anxious to get a daybreak
start, so we could load at night. The night herder had his orders to
bring in the oxen the first sign of day, and I called the cook an hour
before light. When the oxen were brought in, the men were up and ready
to go to yoking. But the nigh wheeler in Joe Jenk’s team, a big
brindle, muley ox, a regular pet steer, was missing. I saw him myself,
Joe saw him, and the night herder swore he came in with the rest.
Well, we looked high and low for that Mr. Ox, but he had vanished.
While the men were eating their breakfast, I got on my horse and the
night herder and I scoured and circled that country for miles around,
but no ox. The country was so bare and level that a jack rabbit needed
to carry a fly for shade. I was worried, for we needed every ox and
every moment of time. I ordered Joe to tie his mate behind the trail
wagon and pull out one ox shy.
“Well, fellows, that thing worried me powerful. Half the teamsters,
good, honest, truthful men as ever popped a whip, swore they saw that
ox when they came in. Well, it served a strong argument that a man can
be positive and yet be mistaken. We nooned ten miles from our night
camp that day. Jerry Wilkens happened to mention it at dinner that he
believed his trail needed greasing. ‘Why,’ said Jerry, ‘you’d think
that I was loaded, the way my team kept their chains taut.’ I noticed
Joe get up from dinner before he had finished, as if an idea had
struck him. He went over and opened the sheet in Jerry’s trail wagon,
and a smile spread over his countenance. ‘Come here, fellows,’ was all
he said.
“We ran over to the wagon and there”--
The boys turned their backs with indistinct mutterings of disgust.
“You all don’t need to believe this if you don’t want to, but there
was the missing ox, coiled up and sleeping like a bear in the wagon.
He even had Jerry’s roll of bedding for a pillow. You see, the wagon
sheet was open in front, and he had hopped up on the trail tongue and
crept in there to steal a ride. Joe climbed into the wagon, and gave
him a few swift kicks in the short ribs, when he opened his eyes,
yawned, got up, and jumped out.”
Bull was rolling a cigarette before starting, while Fox’s night horse
was hard to bridle, which hindered them. With this slight delay,
Forrest turned his horse back and continued: “That same ox on the next
trip, one night when we had the wagons parked into a corral, got away
from the herder, tip-toed over the men’s beds in the gate, stood on
his hind legs long enough to eat four fifty-pound sacks of flour out
of the rear end of a wagon, got down on his side, and wormed his way
under the wagon back into the herd, without being detected or waking a
man.”
As they rode away to relieve the first guard, McCann said, “Isn’t he a
muzzle-loading daisy? If I loved a liar I’d hug that man to death.”
The absence of our foreman made no difference. We all knew our places
on guard. Experience told us there would be no trouble that night.
After Wyatt Roundtree and Moss Strayhorn had made down their bed and
got into it, Wyatt remarked,--
“Did you ever notice, old sidey, how hard this ground is?”
“Oh, yes,” said Moss, as he turned over, hunting for a soft spot, “it
is hard, but we’ll forget all that when this trip ends. Brother, dear,
just think of those long slings with red cherries floating around in
them that we’ll be drinking, and picture us smoking cigars in a blaze.
That thought alone ought to make a hard bed both soft and warm. Then
to think we’ll ride all the way home on the cars.”
McCann banked his fire, and the first guard, Wheat, Stallings, and
Borrowstone, rode in from the herd, all singing an old chorus that had
been composed, with little regard for music or sense, about a hotel
where they had stopped the year before:--
“Sure it’s one cent for coffee and two cents for bread,
Three for a steak and five for a bed,
Sea breeze from the gutter wafts a salt water smell,
To the festive cowboy in the Southwestern hotel.”