DODGE
At Camp Supply, Flood received a letter from Lovell, requesting him to
come on into Dodge ahead of the cattle. So after the first night’s
camp above the Cimarron, Flood caught up a favorite horse, informed
the outfit that he was going to quit us for a few days, and designated
Quince Forrest as the _segundo_ during his absence.
“You have a wide, open country from here into Dodge,” said he, when
ready to start, “and I’ll make inquiry for you daily from men coming
in, or from the buckboard which carries the mail to Supply. I’ll try
to meet you at Mulberry Creek, which is about ten miles south of
Dodge. I’ll make that town to-night, and you ought to make the
Mulberry in two days. You will see the smoke of passing trains to the
north of the Arkansaw, from the first divide south of Mulberry. When
you reach that creek, in case I don’t meet you, hold the herd there
and three or four of you can come on into town. But I’m almost certain
to meet you,” he called back as he rode away.
“Priest,” said Quince, when our foreman had gone, “I reckon you didn’t
handle your herd to suit the old man when he left us that time at
Buffalo Gap. But I think he used rare judgment this time in selecting
a _segundo_. The only thing that frets me is, I’m afraid he’ll meet us
before we reach the Mulberry, and that won’t give me any chance to go
in ahead like a sure enough foreman. Fact is I have business there; I
deposited a few months’ wages at the Long Branch gambling house last
year when I was in Dodge, and failed to take a receipt. I just want to
drop in and make inquiry if they gave me credit, and if the account is
drawing interest. I think it’s all right, for the man I deposited it
with was a clever fellow and asked me to have a drink with him just as
I was leaving. Still, I’d like to step in and see him again.”
Early in the afternoon of the second day after our foreman left us, we
sighted the smoke of passing trains, though they were at least fifteen
miles distant, and long before we reached the Mulberry, a livery rig
came down the trail to meet us. To Forrest’s chagrin, Flood, all
dressed up and with a white collar on, was the driver, while on a back
seat sat Don Lovell and another cowman by the name of McNulta. Every
rascal of us gave old man Don the glad hand as they drove around the
herd, while he, liberal and delighted as a bridegroom, passed out the
cigars by the handful. The cattle were looking fine, which put the old
man in high spirits, and he inquired of each of us if our health was
good and if Flood had fed us well. They loitered around the herd the
rest of the evening, until we threw off the trail to graze and camp
for the night, when Lovell declared his intention of staying all night
with the outfit.
While we were catching horses during the evening, Lovell came up to me
where I was saddling my night horse, and recognizing me gave me news
of my brother Bob. “I had a letter yesterday from him,” he said,
“written from Red Fork, which is just north of the Cimarron River over
on the Chisholm route. He reports everything going along nicely, and
I’m expecting him to show up here within a week. His herd are all beef
steers, and are contracted for delivery at the Crow Indian Agency.
He’s not driving as fast as Flood, but we’ve got to have our beef for
that delivery in better condition, as they have a new agent there this
year, and he may be one of these knowing fellows. Sorry you couldn’t
see your brother, but if you have any word to send him, I’ll deliver
it.”
I thanked him for the interest he had taken in me, and assured him
that I had no news for Robert; but took advantage of the opportunity
to inquire if our middle brother, Zack Quirk, was on the trail with
any of his herds. Lovell knew him, but felt positive he was not with
any of his outfits.
We had an easy night with the cattle. Lovell insisted on standing a
guard, so he took Rod Wheat’s horse and stood the first watch, and
after returning to the wagon, he and McNulta, to our great interest,
argued the merits of the different trails until near midnight. McNulta
had two herds coming in on the Chisholm trail, while Lovell had two
herds on the Western and only one on the Chisholm.
The next morning Forrest, who was again in charge, received orders to
cross the Arkansaw River shortly after noon, and then let half the
outfit come into town. The old trail crossed the river about a mile
above the present town of Dodge City, Kansas, so when we changed
horses at noon, the first and second guards caught up their top
horses, ransacked their war bags, and donned their best toggery. We
crossed the river about one o’clock in order to give the boys a good
holiday, the stage of water making the river easily fordable. McCann,
after dinner was over, drove down on the south side for the benefit of
a bridge which spanned the river opposite the town. It was the first
bridge he had been able to take advantage of in over a thousand miles
of travel, and to-day he spurned the cattle ford as though he had
never crossed at one. Once safely over the river, and with the
understanding that the herd would camp for the night about six miles
north on Duck Creek, six of our men quit us and rode for the town in a
long gallop. Before the rig left us in the morning, McNulta, who was
thoroughly familiar with Dodge, and an older man than Lovell, in a
friendly and fatherly spirit, seeing that many of us were youngsters,
had given us an earnest talk and plenty of good advice.
“I’ve been in Dodge every summer since ’77,” said the old cowman, “and
I can give you boys some points. Dodge is one town where the average
bad man of the West not only finds his equal, but finds himself badly
handicapped. The buffalo hunters and range men have protested against
the iron rule of Dodge’s peace officers, and nearly every protest has
cost human life. Don’t ever get the impression that you can ride your
horses into a saloon, or shoot out the lights in Dodge; it may go
somewhere else, but it don’t go there. So I want to warn you to behave
yourselves. You can wear your six-shooters into town, but you’d better
leave them at the first place you stop, hotel, livery, or business
house. And when you leave town, call for your pistols, but don’t ride
out shooting; omit that. Most cowboys think it’s an infringement on
their rights to give up shooting in town, and if it is, it stands, for
your six-shooters are no match for Winchesters and buckshot; and
Dodge’s officers are as game a set of men as ever faced danger.”
Nearly a generation has passed since McNulta, the Texan cattle drover,
gave our outfit this advice one June morning on the Mulberry, and in
setting down this record, I have only to scan the roster of the peace
officials of Dodge City to admit its correctness. Among the names that
graced the official roster, during the brief span of the trail days,
were the brothers Ed, Jim, and “Bat” Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Jack
Bridges, “Doc” Holliday, Charles Bassett, William Tillman, “Shotgun”
Collins, Joshua Webb, Mayor A.B. Webster, and “Mysterious” Dave
Mather. The puppets of no romance ever written can compare with these
officers in fearlessness. And let it be understood, there were plenty
to protest against their rule; almost daily during the range season
some equally fearless individual defied them.
“Throw up your hands and surrender,” said an officer to a Texas
cowboy, who had spurred an excitable horse until it was rearing and
plunging in the street, leveling meanwhile a double-barreled shotgun
at the horseman.
“Not to you, you white-livered s---- of a b----,” was the instant
reply, accompanied by a shot.
The officer staggered back mortally wounded, but recovered himself,
and the next instant the cowboy reeled from his saddle, a load of
buckshot through his breast.
After the boys left us for town, the remainder of us, belonging to the
third and fourth guard, grazed the cattle forward leisurely during the
afternoon. Through cattle herds were in sight both up and down the
river on either side, and on crossing the Mulberry the day before, we
learned that several herds were holding out as far south as that
stream, while McNulta had reported over forty herds as having already
passed northward on the trail. Dodge was the meeting point for buyers
from every quarter. Often herds would sell at Dodge whose destination
for delivery was beyond the Yellowstone in Montana. Herds frequently
changed owners when the buyer never saw the cattle. A yearling was a
yearling and a two year old was a two year old, and the seller’s word,
that they were “as good or better than the string I sold you last
year,” was sufficient. Cattle were classified as northern, central,
and southern animals, and, except in case of severe drouth in the
preceding years, were pretty nearly uniform in size throughout each
section. The prairie section of the State left its indelible imprint
on the cattle bred in the open country, while the coast, as well as
the piney woods and black-jack sections, did the same, thus making
classification easy.
McCann overtook us early in the evening, and, being an obliging
fellow, was induced by Forrest to stand the first guard with Honeyman
so as to make up the proper number of watches, though with only two
men on guard at a time, for it was hardly possible that any of the
others would return before daybreak. There was much to be seen in
Dodge, and as losing a night’s sleep on duty was considered nothing,
in hilarious recreation sleep would be entirely forgotten. McCann had
not forgotten us, but had smuggled out a quart bottle to cut the
alkali in our drinking water. But a quart amongst eight of us was not
dangerous, so the night passed without incident, though we felt a
growing impatience to get into town. As we expected, about sunrise the
next morning our men off on holiday rode into camp, having never
closed an eye during the entire night. They brought word from Flood
that the herd would only graze over to Saw Log Creek that day, so as
to let the remainder of us have a day and night in town. Lovell would
only advance half a month’s wages--twenty-five dollars--to the man. It
was ample for any personal needs, though we had nearly three months’
wages due, and no one protested, for the old man was generally right
in his decisions. According to their report the boys had had a
hog-killing time, old man Don having been out with them all night. It
seems that McNulta stood in well with a class of practical jokers
which included the officials of the town, and whenever there was
anything on the tapis, he always got the word for himself and friends.
During breakfast Fox Quarternight told this incident of the evening.
“Some professor, a professor in the occult sciences I think he called
himself, had written to the mayor to know what kind of a point Dodge
would be for a lecture. The lecture was to be free, but he also
intimated that he had a card or two on the side up his sleeve, by
which he expected to graft onto some of the coin of the realm from the
wayfaring man as well as the citizen. The mayor turned the letter over
to Bat Masterson, the city marshal, who answered it, and invited the
professor to come on, assuring him that he was deeply interested in
the occult sciences, personally, and would take pleasure in securing
him a hall and a date, besides announcing his coming through the
papers.
“Well, he was billed to deliver his lecture last night. Those old long
horns, McNulta and Lovell, got us in with the crowd, and while they
didn’t know exactly what was coming, they assured us that we couldn’t
afford to miss it. Well, at the appointed hour in the evening, the
hall was packed, not over half being able to find seats. It is safe to
say there were over five hundred men present, as it was announced for
‘men only.’ Every gambler in town was there, with a fair sprinkling of
cowmen and our tribe. At the appointed hour, Masterson, as chairman,
rapped for order, and in a neat little speech announced the object of
the meeting. Bat mentioned the lack of interest in the West in the
higher arts and sciences, and bespoke our careful attention to the
subject under consideration for the evening. He said he felt it hardly
necessary to urge the importance of good order, but if any one had
come out of idle curiosity or bent on mischief, as chairman of the
meeting and a peace officer of the city, he would certainly brook no
interruption. After a few other appropriate remarks, he introduced the
speaker as Dr. J. Graves-Brown, the noted scientist.
“The professor was an oily-tongued fellow, and led off on the prelude
to his lecture, while the audience was as quiet as mice and as grave
as owls. After he had spoken about five minutes and was getting warmed
up to his subject, he made an assertion which sounded a little fishy,
and some one back in the audience blurted out, ‘That’s a damned lie.’
The speaker halted in his discourse and looked at Masterson, who
arose, and, drawing two six-shooters, looked the audience over as if
trying to locate the offender. Laying the guns down on the table, he
informed the meeting that another interruption would cost the offender
his life, if he had to follow him to the Rio Grande or the British
possessions. He then asked the professor, as there would be no further
interruptions, to proceed with his lecture. The professor hesitated
about going on, when Masterson assured him that it was evident that
his audience, with the exception of one skulking coyote, was deeply
interested in the subject, but that no one man could interfere with
the freedom of speech in Dodge as long as it was a free country and he
was city marshal. After this little talk, the speaker braced up and
launched out again on his lecture. When he was once more under good
headway, he had occasion to relate an exhibition which he had
witnessed while studying his profession in India. The incident related
was a trifle rank for any one to swallow raw, when the same party who
had interrupted before sang out, ‘That’s another damn lie.’
“Masterson came to his feet like a flash, a gun in each hand, saying,
‘Stand up, you measly skunk, so I can see you.’ Half a dozen men rose
in different parts of the house and cut loose at him, and as they did
so the lights went out and the room filled with smoke. Masterson was
blazing away with two guns, which so lighted up the rostrum that we
could see the professor crouching under the table. Of course they were
using blank cartridges, but the audience raised the long yell and
poured out through the windows and doors, and the lecture was over. A
couple of police came in later, so McNulta said, escorted the
professor to his room in the hotel, and quietly advised him that Dodge
was hardly capable of appreciating anything so advanced as a lecture
on the occult sciences.”
Breakfast over, Honeyman ran in the _remuda_, and we caught the best
horses in our mounts, on which to pay our respects to Dodge. Forrest
detailed Rod Wheat to wrangle the horses, for we intended to take
Honeyman with us. As it was only about six miles over to the Saw Log,
Quince advised that they graze along Duck Creek until after dinner,
and then graze over to the former stream during the afternoon. Before
leaving, we rode over and looked out the trail after it left Duck, for
it was quite possible that we might return during the night; and we
requested McCann to hang out the lantern, elevated on the end of the
wagon tongue, as a beacon. After taking our bearings, we reined
southward over the divide to Dodge.
“The very first thing I do,” said Quince Forrest, as we rode leisurely
along, “after I get a shave and hair-cut and buy what few tricks I
need, is to hunt up that gambler in the Long Branch, and ask him to
take a drink with me--I took the parting one on him. Then I’ll simply
set in and win back every dollar I lost there last year. There’s
something in this northern air that I breathe in this morning that
tells me that this is my lucky day. You other kids had better let the
games alone and save your money to buy red silk handkerchiefs and soda
water and such harmless jimcracks.” The fact that The Rebel was ten
years his senior never entered his mind as he gave us this fatherly
advice, though to be sure the majority of us were his juniors in
years.
On reaching Dodge, we rode up to the Wright House, where Flood met us
and directed our cavalcade across the railroad to a livery stable, the
proprietor of which was a friend of Lovell’s. We unsaddled and turned
our horses into a large corral, and while we were in the office of the
livery, surrendering our artillery, Flood came in and handed each of
us twenty-five dollars in gold, warning us that when that was gone no
more would be advanced. On receipt of the money, we scattered like
partridges before a gunner. Within an hour or two, we began to return
to the stable by ones and twos, and were stowing into our saddle
pockets our purchases, which ran from needles and thread to .45
cartridges, every mother’s son reflecting the art of the barber, while
John Officer had his blond mustaches blackened, waxed, and curled like
a French dancing master. “If some of you boys will hold him,” said
Moss Strayhorn, commenting on Officer’s appearance, “I’d like to take
a good smell of him, just to see if he took oil up there where the end
of his neck’s haired over.” As Officer already had several drinks
comfortably stowed away under his belt, and stood up strong six feet
two, none of us volunteered.
After packing away our plunder, we sauntered around town, drinking
moderately, and visiting the various saloons and gambling houses. I
clung to my bunkie, The Rebel, during the rounds, for I had learned to
like him, and had confidence he would lead me into no indiscretions.
At the Long Branch, we found Quince Forrest and Wyatt Roundtree
playing the faro bank, the former keeping cases. They never recognized
us, but were answering a great many questions, asked by the dealer and
lookout, regarding the possible volume of the cattle drive that year.
Down at another gambling house, The Rebel met Ben Thompson, a faro
dealer not on duty and an old cavalry comrade, and the two cronied
around for over an hour like long lost brothers, pledging anew their
friendship over several social glasses, in which I was always
included. There was no telling how long this reunion would have
lasted, but happily for my sake, Lovell--who had been asleep all the
morning--started out to round us up for dinner with him at the Wright
House, which was at that day a famous hostelry, patronized almost
exclusively by the Texas cowmen and cattle buyers.
We made the rounds of the gambling houses, looking for our crowd. We
ran across three of the boys piking at a monte game, who came with us
reluctantly; then, guided by Lovell, we started for the Long Branch,
where we felt certain we would find Forrest and Roundtree, if they had
any money left. Forrest was broke, which made him ready to come, and
Roundtree, though quite a winner, out of deference to our employer’s
wishes, cashed in and joined us. Old man Don could hardly do enough
for us; and before we could reach the Wright House, had lined us up
against three different bars; and while I had confidence in my
navigable capacity, I found they were coming just a little too fast
and free, seeing I had scarcely drunk anything in three months but
branch water. As we lined up at the Wright House bar for the final
before dinner, The Rebel, who was standing next to me, entered a
waiver and took a cigar, which I understood to be a hint, and I did
likewise.
We had a splendid dinner. Our outfit, with McNulta, occupied a
ten-chair table, while on the opposite side of the room was another
large table, occupied principally by drovers who were waiting for
their herds to arrive. Among those at the latter table, whom I now
remember, was “Uncle” Henry Stevens, Jesse Ellison, “Lum” Slaughter,
John Blocker, Ike Pryor, “Dun” Houston, and last but not least,
Colonel “Shanghai” Pierce. The latter was possibly the most widely
known cowman between the Rio Grande and the British possessions. He
stood six feet four in his stockings, was gaunt and raw-boned, and the
possessor of a voice which, even in ordinary conversation, could be
distinctly heard across the street.
“No, I’ll not ship any more cattle to your town,” said Pierce to a
cattle solicitor during the dinner, his voice in righteous indignation
resounding like a foghorn through the dining-room, “until you adjust
your yardage charges. Listen! I can go right up into the heart of your
city and get a room for myself, with a nice clean bed in it, plenty of
soap, water, and towels, and I can occupy that room for twenty-four
hours for two bits. And your stockyards, away out in the suburbs, want
to charge me twenty cents a head and let my steer stand out in the
weather.”
After dinner, all the boys, with the exception of Priest and myself,
returned to the gambling houses as though anxious to work overtime.
Before leaving the hotel, Forrest effected the loan of ten from
Roundtree, and the two returned to the Long Branch, while the others
as eagerly sought out a monte game. But I was fascinated with the
conversation of these old cowmen, and sat around for several hours
listening to their yarns and cattle talk.
“I was selling a thousand beef steers one time to some Yankee army
contractors,” Pierce was narrating to a circle of listeners, “and I
got the idea that they were not up to snuff in receiving cattle out on
the prairie. I was holding a herd of about three thousand, and they
had agreed to take a running cut, which showed that they had the
receiving agent fixed. Well, my foreman and I were counting the cattle
as they came between us. But the steers were wild, long-legged
coasters, and came through between us like scared wolves. I had lost
the count several times, but guessed at them and started over, the
cattle still coming like a whirlwind; and when I thought about nine
hundred had passed us, I cut them off and sang out, ‘Here they come
and there they go; just an even thousand, by gatlins! What do you make
it, Bill?’
“‘Just an even thousand, Colonel,’ replied my foreman. Of course the
contractors were counting at the same time, and I suppose didn’t like
to admit they couldn’t count a thousand cattle where anybody else
could, and never asked for a recount, but accepted and paid for them.
They had hired an outfit, and held the cattle outside that night, but
the next day, when they cut them into car lots and shipped them, they
were a hundred and eighteen short. They wanted to come back on me to
make them good, but, shucks! I wasn’t responsible if their Jim Crow
outfit lost the cattle.”
Along early in the evening, Flood advised us boys to return to the
herd with him, but all the crowd wanted to stay in town and see the
sights. Lovell interceded in our behalf, and promised to see that we
left town in good time to be in camp before the herd was ready to move
the next morning. On this assurance, Flood saddled up and started for
the Saw Log, having ample time to make the ride before dark. By this
time most of the boys had worn off the wire edge for gambling and were
comparing notes. Three of them were broke, but Quince Forrest had
turned the tables and was over a clean hundred winner for the day.
Those who had no money fortunately had good credit with those of us
who had, for there was yet much to be seen, and in Dodge in ’82 it
took money to see the elephant. There were several variety theatres, a
number of dance halls, and other resorts which, like the wicked,
flourish best under darkness. After supper, just about dusk, we went
over to the stable, caught our horses, saddled them, and tied them up
for the night. We fully expected to leave town by ten o’clock, for it
was a good twelve mile ride to the Saw Log. In making the rounds of
the variety theatres and dance halls, we hung together. Lovell excused
himself early in the evening, and at parting we assured him that the
outfit would leave for camp before midnight. We were enjoying
ourselves immensely over at the Lone Star dance hall, when an incident
occurred in which we entirely neglected the good advice of McNulta,
and had the sensation of hearing lead whistle and cry around our ears
before we got away from town.
Quince Forrest was spending his winnings as well as drinking freely,
and at the end of a quadrille gave vent to his hilarity in an
old-fashioned Comanche yell. The bouncer of the dance hall of course
had his eye on our crowd, and at the end of a change, took Quince to
task. He was a surly brute, and instead of couching his request in
appropriate language, threatened to throw him out of the house.
Forrest stood like one absent-minded and took the abuse, for
physically he was no match for the bouncer, who was armed, moreover,
and wore an officer’s star. I was dancing in the same set with a
red-headed, freckled-faced girl, who clutched my arm and wished to
know if my friend was armed. I assured her that he was not, or we
would have had notice of it before the bouncer’s invective was ended.
At the conclusion of the dance, Quince and The Rebel passed out,
giving the rest of us the word to remain as though nothing was wrong.
In the course of half an hour, Priest returned and asked us to take
our leave one at a time without attracting any attention, and meet at
the stable. I remained until the last, and noticed The Rebel and the
bouncer taking a drink together at the bar,--the former apparently in
a most amiable mood. We passed out together shortly afterward, and
found the other boys mounted and awaiting our return, it being now
about midnight. It took but a moment to secure our guns, and once in
the saddle, we rode through the town in the direction of the herd. On
the outskirts of the town, we halted. “I’m going back to that dance
hall,” said Forrest, “and have one round at least with that
whore-herder. No man who walks this old earth can insult me, as he
did, not if he has a hundred stars on him. If any of you don’t want to
go along, ride right on to camp, but I’d like to have you all go. And
when I take his measure, it will be the signal to the rest of you to
put out the lights. All that’s going, come on.” There were no
dissenters to the programme. I saw at a glance that my bunkie was
heart and soul in the play, and took my cue and kept my mouth shut. We
circled round the town to a vacant lot within a block of the rear of
the dance hall. Honeyman was left to hold the horses; then, taking off
our belts and hanging them on the pommels of our saddles, we secreted
our six-shooters inside the waistbands of our trousers. The hall was
still crowded with the revelers when we entered, a few at a time,
Forrest and Priest being the last to arrive. Forrest had changed hats
with The Rebel, who always wore a black one, and as the bouncer
circulated around, Quince stepped squarely in front of him. There was
no waste of words, but a gun-barrel flashed in the lamplight, and the
bouncer, struck with the six-shooter, fell like a beef. Before the
bewildered spectators could raise a hand, five six-shooters were
turned into the ceiling. The lights went out at the first fire, and
amidst the rush of men and the screaming of women, we reached the
outside, and within a minute were in our saddles. All would have gone
well had we returned by the same route and avoided the town; but after
crossing the railroad track, anger and pride having not been properly
satisfied, we must ride through the town.
On entering the main street, leading north and opposite the bridge on
the river, somebody of our party in the rear turned his gun loose into
the air. The Rebel and I were riding in the lead, and at the
clattering of hoofs and shooting behind us, our horses started on the
run, the shooting by this time having become general. At the second
street crossing, I noticed a rope of fire belching from a Winchester
in the doorway of a store building. There was no doubt in my mind but
we were the object of the manipulator of that carbine, and as we
reached the next cross street, a man kneeling in the shadow of a
building opened fire on us with a six-shooter. Priest reined in his
horse, and not having wasted cartridges in the open-air shooting,
returned the compliment until he emptied his gun. By this time every
officer in the town was throwing lead after us, some of which cried a
little too close for comfort. When there was no longer any shooting on
our flanks, we turned into a cross street and soon left the lead
behind us. At the outskirts of the town we slowed up our horses and
took it leisurely for a mile or so, when Quince Forrest halted us and
said, “I’m going to drop out here and see if any one follows us. I
want to be alone, so that if any officers try to follow us up, I can
have it out with them.”
[Illustration: CELEBRATING IN DODGE]
As there was no time to lose in parleying, and as he had a good horse,
we rode away and left him. On reaching camp, we secured a few hours’
sleep, but the next morning, to our surprise, Forrest failed to
appear. We explained the situation to Flood, who said if he did not
show up by noon, he would go back and look for him. We all felt
positive that he would not dare to go back to town; and if he was
lost, as soon as the sun arose he would be able to get his bearings.
While we were nooning about seven miles north of the Saw Log, some one
noticed a buggy coming up the trail. As it came nearer we saw that
there were two other occupants of the rig besides the driver. When it
drew up old Quince, still wearing The Rebel’s hat, stepped out of the
rig, dragged out his saddle from under the seat, and invited his
companions to dinner. They both declined, when Forrest, taking out his
purse, handed a twenty-dollar gold piece to the driver with an oath.
He then asked the other man what he owed him, but the latter very
haughtily declined any recompense, and the conveyance drove away.
“I suppose you fellows don’t know what all this means,” said Quince,
as he filled a plate and sat down in the shade of the wagon. “Well,
that horse of mine got a bullet plugged into him last night as we were
leaving town, and before I could get him to Duck Creek, he died on me.
I carried my saddle and blankets until daylight, when I hid in a draw
and waited for something to turn up. I thought some of you would come
back and look for me sometime, for I knew you wouldn’t understand it,
when all of a sudden here comes this livery rig along with that
drummer--going out to Jetmore, I believe he said. I explained what I
wanted, but he decided that his business was more important than mine,
and refused me. I referred the matter to Judge Colt, and the judge
decided that it was more important that I overtake this herd. I’d have
made him take pay, too, only he acted so mean about it.”
After dinner, fearing arrest, Forrest took a horse and rode on ahead
to the Solomon River. We were a glum outfit that afternoon, but after
a good night’s rest were again as fresh as daisies. When McCann
started to get breakfast, he hung his coat on the end of the wagon
rod, while he went for a bucket of water. During his absence, John
Officer was noticed slipping something into Barney’s coat pocket, and
after breakfast when our cook went to his coat for his tobacco, he
unearthed a lady’s cambric handkerchief, nicely embroidered, and a
silver mounted garter. He looked at the articles a moment, and,
grasping the situation at a glance, ran his eye over the outfit for
the culprit. But there was not a word or a smile. He walked over and
threw the articles into the fire, remarking, “Good whiskey and bad
women will be the ruin of you varmints yet.”