THE REPUBLICAN
The outfit were awakened out of sleep the next morning by shouts of
“Whoa, _mula_! Whoa, you mongrel outcasts! Catch them blankety blank
mules!” accompanied by a rattle of chain harness, and Quince Forrest
dashed across our _segundo’s_ bed, shaking a harness in each hand. We
kicked the blankets off, and came to our feet in time to see the
offender disappear behind the wagon, while Stallings sat up and
yawningly inquired “what other locoed fool had got funny.” But the
camp was awake, for the cattle were leisurely leaving the bed ground,
while Honeyman, who had been excused from the herd with the first sign
of dawn, was rustling up the horses in the valley of the Beaver below
camp. With the understanding that the Republican River was a short
three days’ drive from our present camp, the herd trailed out the
first day with not an incident to break the monotony of eating and
sleeping, grazing and guarding. But near noon of the second day, we
were overtaken by an old, long-whiskered man and a boy of possibly
fifteen. They were riding in a light, rickety vehicle, drawn by a
small Spanish mule and a rough but clean-limbed bay mare. The
strangers appealed to our sympathy, for they were guileless in
appearance, and asked so many questions, indicating that ours might
have been the first herd of trail cattle they had ever seen. The old
man was a free talker, and innocently allowed us to inveigle it out of
him that he had been down on the North Beaver, looking up land to
homestead, and was then on his way up to take a look at the lands
along the Republican. We invited him and the boy to remain for dinner,
for in that monotonous waste, we would have been only too glad to
entertain a bandit, or an angel for that matter, provided he would
talk about something else than cattle. In our guest, however, we found
a good conversationalist, meaty with stories not eligible to the
retired list; and in return, the hospitality of our wagon was his and
welcome. The travel-stained old rascal proved to be a good mixer, and
before dinner was over he had won us to a man, though Stallings, in
the capacity of foreman, felt it incumbent on him to act the host in
behalf of the outfit. In the course of conversation, the old man
managed to unearth the fact that our acting foreman was a native of
Tennessee, and when he had got it down to town and county, claimed
acquaintanceship with a family of men in that locality who were famed
as breeders of racehorses. Our guest admitted that he himself was a
native of that State, and in his younger days had been a devotee of
the racecourse, with the name of every horseman in that commonwealth
as well as the bluegrass regions of Kentucky on his tongue’s end. But
adversity had come upon him, and now he was looking out a new country
in which to begin life over again.
After dinner, when our _remuda_ was corralled to catch fresh mounts,
our guest bubbled over with admiration of our horses, and pointed out
several as promising speed and action. We took his praise of our
horseflesh as quite a compliment, never suspecting flattery at the
hands of this nomadic patriarch. He innocently inquired which was
considered the fastest horse in the _remuda_, when Stallings pointed
out a brown, belonging to Flood’s mount, as the best quarter horse in
the band. He gave him a critical examination, and confessed he would
never have picked him for a horse possessing speed, though he admitted
that he was unfamiliar with range-raised horses, this being his first
visit in the West. Stallings offered to loan him a horse out of his
mount, and as the old man had no saddle, our _segundo_ prevailed on
McCann to loan his for the afternoon. I am inclined to think there was
a little jealousy amongst us that afternoon, as to who was best
entitled to entertain our company; and while he showed no partiality,
Stallings seemed to monopolize his countryman to our disadvantage. The
two jollied along from point to rear and back again, and as they
passed us riders in the swing, Stallings ignored us entirely, though
the old man always had a pleasant word as he rode by.
“If we don’t do something to wean our _segundo_ from that old man,”
said Fox Quarternight, as he rode up and overtook me, “he’s liable to
quit the herd and follow that old fossil back to Tennessee or some
other port. Just look at the two now, will you? Old Joe’s putting on
as much dog as though he was asking the Colonel for his daughter.
Between me and you and the gatepost, Quirk, I’m a little dubious
about the old varmint--he talks too much.”
But I had warmed up to our guest, and gave Fox’s criticism very little
weight, well knowing if any one of us had been left in charge, he
would have shown the old man similar courtesies. In this view I was
correct, for when Stallings had ridden on ahead to look up water that
afternoon, the very man that entirely monopolized our guest for an
hour was Mr. John Fox Quarternight. Nor did he jar loose until we
reached water, when Stallings cut him off by sending all the men on
the right of the herd to hold the cattle from grazing away until every
hoof had had ample time to drink. During this rest, the old man
circulated around, asking questions as usual, and when I informed him
that, with a half mile of water front, it would take a full hour to
water the herd properly, he expressed an innocent amazement which
seemed as simple as sincere. When the wagon and _remuda_ came up, I
noticed the boy had tied his team behind our wagon, and was riding one
of Honeyman’s horses bareback, assisting the wrangler in driving the
saddle stock. After the wagon had crossed the creek, and the kegs had
been filled and the teams watered, Stallings took the old man with him
and the two rode away in the lead of the wagon and _remuda_ to select
a camp and a bed ground for the night. The rest of us grazed the
cattle, now thoroughly watered, forward until the wagon was sighted,
when, leaving two men as usual to nurse them up to bed, the remainder
of us struck out for camp. As I rode in, I sought out my bunkie to get
his opinion regarding our guest. But The Rebel was reticent, as usual,
of his opinions of people, so my inquiries remained unanswered, which
only served to increase my confidence in the old man.
On arriving at camp we found Stallings and Honeyman entertaining our
visitor in a little game of freeze-out for a dollar a corner, while
McCann looked wistfully on, as if regretting that his culinary duties
prevented his joining in. Our arrival should have been the signal to
our wrangler for rounding in the _remuda_ for night horses, but
Stallings was too absorbed in the game even to notice the lateness of
the hour and order in the saddle stock. Quarternight, however, had a
few dollars burning holes in his pocket, and he called our horse
rustler’s attention to the approaching twilight; not that he was in
any hurry, but if Honeyman vacated, he saw an opportunity to get into
the game. The foreman gave the necessary order, and Quarternight at
once bargained for the wrangler’s remaining beans, and sat into the
game. While we were catching up our night horses, Honeyman told us
that the old man had been joking Stallings about the speed of Flood’s
brown, even going so far as to intimate that he didn’t believe that
the gelding could outrun that old bay harness mare which he was
driving. He had confessed that he was too hard up to wager much on it,
but he would risk a few dollars on his judgment on a running horse any
day. He also said that Stallings had come back at him, more in earnest
than in jest, that if he really thought his harness mare could outrun
the brown, he could win every dollar the outfit had. They had codded
one another until Joe had shown some spirit, when the old man
suggested they play a little game of cards for fun, but Stallings had
insisted on stakes to make it interesting, and on the old homesteader
pleading poverty, they had agreed to make it for a dollar on the
corner. After supper our _segundo_ wanted to renew the game; the old
man protested that he was too unlucky and could not afford to lose,
but was finally persuaded to play one more game, “just to pass away
the evening.” Well, the evening passed, and within the short space of
two hours, there also passed to the supposed lean purse of our guest
some twenty dollars from the feverish pockets of the outfit. Then the
old man felt too sleepy to play any longer, but loitered around some
time, and casually inquired of his boy if he had picketed their mare
where she would get a good bait of grass. This naturally brought up
the proposed race for discussion.
“If you really think that that old bay palfrey of yours can outrun any
horse in our _remuda_,” said Stallings, tauntingly, “you’re missing
the chance of your life not to pick up a few honest dollars as you
journey along. You stay with us to-morrow, and when we meet our
foreman at the Republican, if he’ll loan me the horse, I’ll give you a
race for any sum you name, just to show you that I’ve got a few drops
of sporting blood in me. And if your mare can outrun a cow, you stand
an easy chance to win some money.”
Our visitor met Joe’s bantering in a timid manner. Before turning in,
however, he informed us that he appreciated our hospitality, but that
he expected to make an early drive in the morning to the Republican,
where he might camp several days. With this the old man and the boy
unrolled their blankets, and both were soon sound asleep. Then our
_segundo_ quietly took Fox Quarternight off to one side, and I heard
the latter agree to call him when the third guard was aroused. Having
notified Honeyman that he would stand his own watch that night,
Stallings, with the rest of the outfit, soon joined the old man in the
land of dreams. Instead of the rough shaking which was customary on
arousing a guard, when we of the third watch were called, we were
awakened in a manner so cautious as to betoken something unusual in
the air. The atmosphere of mystery soon cleared after reaching the
herd, when Bob Blades informed us that it was the intention of
Stallings and Quarternight to steal the old man’s harness mare off the
picket rope, and run her against their night horses in a trial race.
Like love and war, everything is fair in horse racing, but the
audacity of this proposition almost passed belief. Both Blades and
Durham remained on guard with us, and before we had circled the herd
half a dozen times, the two conspirators came riding up to the bed
ground, leading the bay mare. There was a good moon that night;
Quarternight exchanged mounts with John Officer, as the latter had a
splendid night horse that had outstripped the outfit in every stampede
so far, and our _segundo_ and the second guard rode out of hearing of
both herd and camp to try out the horses.
After an hour, the quartette returned, and under solemn pledges of
secrecy Stallings said, “Why, that old bay harness mare can’t run fast
enough to keep up with a funeral. I rode her myself, and if she’s got
any run in her, rowel and quirt won’t bring it out. That chestnut of
John’s ran away from her as if she was hobbled and side-lined, while
this coyote of mine threw dust in her face every jump in the road from
the word ‘go.’ If the old man isn’t bluffing and will hack his mare,
we’ll get back our freeze-out money with good interest. Mind you, now,
we must keep it a dead secret from Flood--that we’ve tried the mare;
he might get funny and tip the old man.”
We all swore great oaths that Flood should never hear a breath of it.
The conspirators and their accomplices rode into camp, and we resumed
our sentinel rounds. I had some money, and figured that betting in a
cinch like this would be like finding money in the road.
But The Rebel, when we were returning from guard, said, “Tom, you keep
out of this race the boys are trying to jump up. I’ve met a good many
innocent men in my life, and there’s something about this old man that
reminds me of people who have an axe to grind. Let the other fellows
run on the rope if they want to, but you keep your money in your
pocket. Take an older man’s advice this once. And I’m going to round
up John in the morning, and try and beat a little sense into his head,
for he thinks it’s a dead immortal cinch.”
I had made it a rule, during our brief acquaintance, never to argue
matters with my bunkie, well knowing that his years and experience in
the ways of the world entitled his advice to my earnest consideration.
So I kept silent, though secretly wishing he had not taken the trouble
to throw cold water on my hopes, for I had built several air castles
with the money which seemed within my grasp. We had been out then over
four months, and I, like many of the other boys, was getting ragged,
and with Ogalalla within a week’s drive, a town which it took money to
see properly, I thought it a burning shame to let this opportunity
pass. When I awoke the next morning the camp was astir, and my first
look was in the direction of the harness mare, grazing peacefully on
the picket rope where she had been tethered the night before.
Breakfast over, our venerable visitor harnessed in his team,
preparatory to starting. Stallings had made it a point to return to
the herd for a parting word.
“Well, if you must go on ahead,” said Joe to the old man, as the
latter was ready to depart, “remember that you can get action on your
money, if you still think that your bay mare can outrun that brown cow
horse which I pointed out to you yesterday. You needn’t let your
poverty interfere, for we’ll run you to suit your purse, light or
heavy. The herd will reach the river by the middle of the afternoon,
or a little later, and you be sure and stay overnight there,--stay
with us if you want to,--and we’ll make up a little race for any sum
you say, from marbles and chalk to a hundred dollars. I may be as
badly deceived in your mare as I think you are in my horse; but if
you’re a Tennesseean, here’s your chance.”
But beyond giving Stallings his word that he would see him again
during the afternoon or evening, the old man would make no definite
proposition, and drove away. There was a difference of opinion amongst
the outfit, some asserting that we would never see him again, while
the larger portion of us were at least hopeful that we would. After
our guest was well out of sight, and before the wagon started,
Stallings corralled the _remuda_ a second time, and taking out Flood’s
brown and Officer’s chestnut, tried the two horses for a short dash of
about a hundred yards. The trial confirmed the general opinion of the
outfit, for the brown outran the chestnut over four lengths, starting
half a neck in the rear. A general canvass of the outfit was taken,
and to my surprise there was over three hundred dollars amongst us. I
had over forty dollars, but I only promised to loan mine if it was
needed, while Priest refused flat-footed either to lend or bet his. I
wanted to bet, and it would grieve me to the quick if there was any
chance and I didn’t take it--but I was young then.
Flood met us at noon about seven miles out from the Republican with
the superintendent of a cattle company in Montana, and, before we
started the herd after dinner, had sold our _remuda_, wagon, and mules
for delivery at the nearest railroad point to the Blackfoot Agency
sometime during September. This cattle company, so we afterwards
learned from Flood, had headquarters at Helena, while their ranges
were somewhere on the headwaters of the Missouri. But the sale of the
horses seemed to us an insignificant matter, compared with the race
which was on the tapis; and when Stallings had made the ablest talk of
his life for the loan of the brown, Flood asked the new owner, a Texan
himself, if he had any objections.
“Certainly not,” said he; “let the boys have a little fun. I’m glad to
know that the _remuda_ has fast horses in it. Why didn’t you tell me,
Flood?--I might have paid you extra if I had known I was buying
racehorses. Be sure and have the race come off this evening, for I
want to see it.”
And he was not only good enough to give his consent, but added a word
of advice. “There’s a deadfall down here on the river,” said he, “that
robs a man going and coming. They’ve got booze to sell you that would
make a pet rabbit fight a wolf. And if you can’t stand the whiskey,
why, they have skin games running to fleece you as fast as you can get
your money to the centre. Be sure, lads, and let both their whiskey
and cards alone.”
While changing mounts after dinner, Stallings caught out the brown
horse and tied him behind the wagon, while Flood and the horse buyer
returned to the river in the conveyance, our foreman having left his
horse at the ford. When we reached the Republican with the herd about
two hours before sundown, and while we were crossing and watering, who
should ride up on the Spanish mule but our Tennessee friend. If
anything, he was a trifle more talkative and boastful than before,
which was easily accounted for, as it was evident that he was
drinking; and producing a large bottle which had but a few drinks left
in it, insisted on every one taking a drink with him. He said he was
encamped half a mile down the river, and that he would race his mare
against our horse for fifty dollars; that if we were in earnest, and
would go back with him and post our money at the tent, he would cover
it. Then Stallings in turn became crafty and diplomatic, and after
asking a number of unimportant questions regarding conditions,
returned to the joint with the old man, taking Fox Quarternight. To
the rest of us it looked as though there was going to be no chance to
bet a dollar even. But after the herd had been watered and we had
grazed out some distance from the river, the two worthies returned.
They had posted their money, and all the conditions were agreed upon;
the race was to take place at sundown over at the saloon and gambling
joint. In reply to an earnest inquiry by Bob Blades, the outfit were
informed that we might get some side bets with the gamblers, but the
money already posted was theirs, win or lose. This selfishness was not
looked upon very favorably, and some harsh comments were made, but
Stallings and Quarternight were immovable.
We had an early supper, and pressing in McCann to assist The Rebel in
grazing the herd until our return, the cavalcade set out, Flood and
the horse buyer with us. My bunkie urged me to let him keep my money,
but under the pretense of some of the outfit wanting to borrow it, I
took it with me. The race was to be catch weights, and as Rod Wheat
was the lightest in our outfit, the riding fell to him. On the way
over I worked Bull Durham out to one side, and after explaining the
jacketing I had got from Priest, and the partial promise I had made
not to bet, gave him my forty dollars to wager for me if he got a
chance. Bull and I were good friends, and on the understanding that it
was to be a secret, I intimated that some of the velvet would line his
purse. On reaching the tent, we found about half a dozen men loitering
around, among them the old man, who promptly invited us all to have a
drink with him. A number of us accepted and took a chance against the
vintage of this canvas roadhouse, though the warnings of the Montana
horse buyer were fully justified by the quality of the goods
dispensed. While taking the drink, the old man was lamenting his
poverty, which kept him from betting more money, and after we had gone
outside, the saloonkeeper came and said to him, in a burst of generous
feeling,--
“Old sport, you’re a stranger to me, but I can see at a glance that
you’re a dead game man. Now, if you need any more money, just give me
a bill of sale of your mare and mule, and I’ll advance you a hundred.
Of course I know nothing about the merits of the two horses, but I
noticed your team as you drove up to-day, and if you can use any more
money, just ask for it.”
The old man jumped at the proposition in delighted surprise; the two
reentered the tent, and after killing considerable time in writing out
a bill of sale, the old graybeard came out shaking a roll of bills at
us. He was promptly accommodated, Bull Durham making the first bet of
fifty; and as I caught his eye, I walked away, shaking hands with
myself over my crafty scheme. When the old man’s money was all taken,
the hangers-on of the place became enthusiastic over the betting, and
took every bet while there was a dollar in sight amongst our crowd,
the horse buyer even making a wager. When we were out of money they
offered to bet against our saddles, six-shooters, and watches. Flood
warned us not to bet our saddles, but Quarternight and Stallings had
already wagered theirs, and were stripping them from their horses to
turn them over to the saloonkeeper as stakeholder. I managed to get a
ten-dollar bet on my six-shooter, though it was worth double the
money, and a similar amount on my watch. When the betting ended, every
watch and six-shooter in the outfit was in the hands of the
stakeholder, and had it not been for Flood our saddles would have been
in the same hands.
It was to be a three hundred yard race, with an ask and answer start
between the riders. Stallings and the old man stepped off the course
parallel with the river, and laid a rope on the ground to mark the
start and the finish. The sun had already set and twilight was
deepening when the old man signaled to his boy in the distance to
bring up the mare. Wheat was slowly walking the brown horse over the
course, when the boy came up, cantering the mare, blanketed with an
old government blanket, over the imaginary track also. These
preliminaries thrilled us like the tuning of a fiddle for a dance.
Stallings and the old homesteader went out to the starting point to
give the riders the terms of the race, while the remainder of us
congregated at the finish. It was getting dusk when the blanket was
stripped from the mare and the riders began jockeying for a start. In
that twilight stillness we could hear the question, “Are you ready?”
and the answer “No,” as the two jockeys came up to the starting rope.
But finally there was an affirmative answer, and the two horses were
coming through like arrows in their flight. My heart stood still for
the time being, and when the bay mare crossed the rope at the outcome
an easy winner, I was speechless. Such a crestfallen-looking lot of
men as we were would be hard to conceive. We had been beaten, and not
only felt it but looked it. Flood brought us to our senses by calling
our attention to the approaching darkness, and setting off in a gallop
toward the herd. The rest of us trailed along silently after him in
threes and fours. After the herd had been bedded and we had gone in to
the wagon my spirits were slightly lightened at the sight of the two
arch conspirators, Stallings and Quarternight, meekly riding in
bareback. I enjoyed the laughter of The Rebel and McCann at their
plight; but when my bunkie noticed my six-shooter missing, and I
admitted having bet it, he turned the laugh on me.
“That’s right, son,” he said; “don’t you take anybody’s advice. You’re
young yet, but you’ll learn. And when you learn it for yourself,
you’ll remember it that much better.”
That night when we were on guard together, I eased my conscience by
making a clean breast of the whole affair to my bunkie, which resulted
in his loaning me ten dollars with which to redeem, my six-shooter in
the morning. But the other boys, with the exception of Officer, had no
banker to call on as we had, and when Quarternight and Stallings asked
the foreman what they were to do for saddles, the latter suggested
that one of them could use the cook’s, while the other could take it
bareback or ride in the wagon. But the Montana man interceded in their
behalf, and Flood finally gave in and advanced them enough to redeem
their saddles. Our foreman had no great amount of money with him, but
McCann and the horse buyer came to the rescue for what they had, and
the guns were redeemed; not that they were needed, but we would have
been so lonesome without them. I had worn one so long I didn’t trim
well without it, but toppled forward and couldn’t maintain my balance.
But the most cruel exposure of the whole affair occurred when Nat
Straw, riding in ahead of his herd, overtook us one day out from
Ogalalla.
“I met old ‘Says I’ Littlefield,” said Nat, “back at the ford of the
Republican, and he tells me that they won over five hundred dollars
off this Circle Dot outfit on a horse race. He showed me a whole
basketful of your watches. I used to meet old ‘Says I’ over on the
Chisholm trail, and he’s a foxy old innocent. He told me that he put
tar on his harness mare’s back to see if you fellows had stolen the
nag off the picket rope at night, and when he found you had, he robbed
you to a finish. He knew you fool Texans would bet your last dollar on
such a cinch. That’s one of his tricks. You see the mare you tried
wasn’t the one you ran the race against. I’ve seen them both, and they
look as much alike as two pint bottles. My, but you fellows are easy
fish!”
And then Jim Flood lay down on the grass and laughed until the tears
came into his eyes, and we understood that there were tricks in other
trades than ours.