OGALALLA
From the head of Stinking Water to the South Platte was a waterless
stretch of forty miles. But by watering the herd about the middle of
one forenoon, after grazing, we could get to water again the following
evening. With the exception of the meeting with Nat Straw, the drive
was featureless, but the night that Nat stayed with us, he regaled us
with his experiences, in which he was as lucky as ever. Where we had
lost three days on the Canadian with bogged cattle, he had crossed it
within fifteen minutes after reaching it. His herd was sold before
reaching Dodge, so that he lost no time there, and on reaching
Slaughter’s bridge, he was only two days behind our herd. His cattle
were then en route for delivery on the Crazy Woman in Wyoming, and, as
he put it, “any herd was liable to travel faster when it had a new
owner.”
Flood had heard from our employer at Culbertson, learning that he
would not meet us at Ogalalla, as his last herd was due in Dodge about
that time. My brother Bob’s herd had crossed the Arkansaw a week
behind us, and was then possibly a hundred and fifty miles in our
rear.
We all regretted not being able to see old man Don, for he believed
that nothing was too good for his men, and we all remembered the good
time he had shown us in Dodge. The smoke of passing trains hung for
hours in signal clouds in our front, during the afternoon of the
second day’s dry drive, but we finally scaled the last divide, and
there, below us in the valley of the South Platte, nestled Ogalalla,
the Gomorrah of the cattle trail. From amongst its half hundred
buildings, no church spire pointed upward, but instead three fourths
of its business houses were dance halls, gambling houses, and saloons.
We all knew the town by reputation, while the larger part of our
outfit had been in it before. It was there that Joel Collins and his
outfit rendezvoused when they robbed the Union Pacific train in
October, ’77. Collins had driven a herd of cattle for his father and
brother, and after selling them in the Black Hills, gambled away the
proceeds. Some five or six of his outfit returned to Ogalalla with
him, and being moneyless, concluded to recoup their losses at the
expense of the railway company. Going eighteen miles up the river to
Big Springs, seven of them robbed the express and passengers, the
former yielding sixty thousand dollars in gold. The next morning they
were in Ogalalla, paying debts, and getting their horses shod. In
Collins’s outfit was Sam Bass, and under his leadership, until he met
his death the following spring at the hands of Texas Rangers, the
course of the outfit southward was marked by a series of daring bank
and train robberies.
We reached the river late that evening, and after watering, grazed
until dark and camped for the night. But it was not to be a night of
rest and sleep, for the lights were twinkling across the river in
town; and cook, horse wrangler, and all, with the exception of the
first guard, rode across the river after the herd had been bedded.
Flood had quit us while we were watering the herd and gone in ahead to
get a draft cashed, for he was as moneyless as the rest of us. But his
letter of credit was good anywhere on the trail where money was to be
had, and on reaching town, he took us into a general outfitting store
and paid us twenty-five dollars apiece. After warning us to be on hand
at the wagon to stand our watches, he left us, and we scattered like
lost sheep. Officer and I paid our loans to The Rebel, and the three
of us wandered around for several hours in company with Nat Straw.
When we were in Dodge, my bunkie had shown no inclination to gamble,
but now he was the first one to suggest that we make up a “cow,” and
let him try his luck at monte. Straw and Officer were both willing,
and though in rags, I willingly consented and contributed my five to
the general fund.
Every gambling house ran from two to three monte layouts, as it was a
favorite game of cowmen, especially when they were from the far
southern country. Priest soon found a game to his liking, and after
watching his play through several deals, Officer and I left him with
the understanding that he would start for camp promptly at midnight.
There was much to be seen, though it was a small place, for the ends
of the earth’s iniquity had gathered in Ogalalla. We wandered through
the various gambling houses, drinking moderately, meeting an
occasional acquaintance from Texas, and in the course of our rounds
landed in the Dew-Drop-In dance hall. Here might be seen the frailty
of women in every grade and condition. From girls in their teens,
launching out on a life of shame, to the adventuress who had once had
youth and beauty in her favor, but was now discarded and ready for the
final dose of opium and the coroner’s verdict,--all were there in
tinsel and paint, practicing a careless exposure of their charms. In a
town which has no night, the hours pass rapidly; and before we were
aware, midnight was upon us. Returning to the gambling house where we
had left Priest, we found him over a hundred dollars winner, and,
calling his attention to the hour, persuaded him to cash in and join
us. We felt positively rich, as he counted out to each partner his
share of the winnings! Straw was missing to receive his, but we knew
he could be found on the morrow, and after a round of drinks, we
forded the river. As we rode along, my bunkie said,--“I’m
superstitious, and I can’t help it. But I’ve felt for a day or so that
I was in luck, and I wanted you lads in with me if my warning was
true. I never was afraid to go into battle but once, and just as we
were ordered into action, a shell killed my horse under me and I was
left behind. I’ve had lots of such warnings, good and bad, and I’m
influenced by them. If we get off to-morrow, and I’m in the mood, I’ll
go back there and make some monte bank look sick.”
We reached the wagon in good time to be called on our guard, and after
it was over secured a few hours’ sleep before the foreman aroused us
in the morning. With herds above and below us, we would either have to
graze contrary to our course or cross the river. The South Platte was
a wide, sandy river with numerous channels, and as easily crossed as
an alkali flat of equal width, so far as water was concerned. The sun
was not an hour high when we crossed, passing within two hundred yards
of the business section of the town, which lay under a hill. The
valley on the north side of the river, and beyond the railroad, was
not over half a mile wide, and as we angled across it, the town seemed
as dead as those that slept in the graveyard on the first hill beside
the trail.
Finding good grass about a mile farther on, we threw the herd off the
trail, and leaving orders to graze until noon, the foreman with the
first and second guard returned to town. It was only about ten miles
over to the North Platte, where water was certain; and in the hope
that we would be permitted to revisit the village during the
afternoon, we who were on guard threw riders in the lead of the
grazing cattle, in order not to be too far away should permission be
granted us. That was a long morning for us of the third and fourth
guards, with nothing to do but let the cattle feed, while easy money
itched in our pockets. Behind us lay Ogalalla--and our craft did
dearly love to break the monotony of our work by getting into town.
But by the middle of the forenoon, the wagon and saddle horses
overtook us, and ordering McCann into camp a scant mile in our lead,
we allowed the cattle to lie down, they having grazed to contentment.
Leaving two men on guard, the remainder of us rode in to the wagon,
and lightened with an hour’s sleep in its shade the time which hung
heavy on our hands. We were aroused by our horse wrangler, who had
sighted a cavalcade down the trail, which, from the color of their
horses, he knew to be our outfit returning. As they came nearer and
their numbers could be made out, it was evident that our foreman was
not with them, and our hopes rose. On coming up, they informed us that
we were to have a half holiday, while they would take the herd over to
the North River during the afternoon. Then emergency orders rang out
to Honeyman and McCann, and as soon as a change of mounts could be
secured, our dinners bolted, and the herders relieved, we were ready
to go. Two of the six who returned had shed their rags and swaggered
about in new, cheap suits; the rest, although they had money, simply
had not had the time to buy clothes in a place with so many
attractions.
When the herders came in deft hands transferred their saddles to
waiting mounts while they swallowed a hasty dinner, and we set out for
Ogalalla, happy as city urchins in an orchard. We were less than five
miles from the burg, and struck a free gait in riding in, where we
found several hundred of our craft holding high jinks. A number of
herds had paid off their outfits and were sending them home, while
from the herds for sale, holding along the river, every man not on day
herd was paying his respects to the town. We had not been there five
minutes when a horse race was run through the main street, Nat Straw
and Jim Flood acting as judges on the outcome. The officers of
Ogalalla were a different crowd from what we had encountered at Dodge,
and everything went. The place suited us. Straw had entirely forgotten
our “cow” of the night before, and when The Rebel handed him his share
of the winnings, he tucked it away in the watch pocket of his trousers
without counting. But he had arranged a fiddling match between a darky
cook of one of the returning outfits and a locoed white man, a
mendicant of the place, and invited us to be present. Straw knew the
foreman of the outfit to which the darky belonged, and the two had
fixed it up to pit the two in a contest, under the pretense that a
large wager had been made on which was the better fiddler. The contest
was to take place at once in the corral of the Lone Star livery
stable, and promised to be humorous if nothing more. So after the race
was over, the next number on the programme was the fiddling match, and
we followed the crowd. The Rebel had given us the slip during the
race, though none of us cared, as we knew he was hungering for a monte
game. It was a motley crowd which had gathered in the corral, and all
seemed to know of the farce to be enacted, though the Texas outfit to
which the darky belonged were flashing their money on their dusky
cook, “as the best fiddler that ever crossed Red River with a cow
herd.”
“Oh, I don’t know that your man is such an Ole Bull as all that,” said
Nat Straw. “I just got a hundred posted which says he can’t even play
a decent second to my man. And if we can get a competent set of judges
to decide the contest, I’ll wager a little more on the white against
the black, though I know your man is a cracker-jack.”
A canvass of the crowd was made for judges, but as nearly every one
claimed to be interested in the result, having made wagers, or was
incompetent to sit in judgment on a musical contest, there was some
little delay. Finally, Joe Stallings went to Nat Straw and told him
that I was a fiddler, whereupon he instantly appointed me as judge,
and the other side selected a redheaded fellow belonging to one of
Dillard Fant’s herds. Between the two of us we selected as the third
judge a bartender whom I had met the night before. The conditions
governing the contest were given us, and two chuck wagons were drawn
up alongside each other, in one of which were seated the contestants
and in the other the judges. The gravity of the crowd was only broken
as some enthusiast cheered his favorite or defiantly offered to wager
on the man of his choice. Numerous sham bets were being made, when the
redheaded judge arose and announced the conditions, and urged the
crowd to remain quiet, that the contestants might have equal justice.
Each fiddler selected his own piece. The first number was a waltz, on
the conclusion of which partisanship ran high, each faction cheering
its favorite to the echo. The second number was a jig, and as the
darky drew his bow several times across the strings tentatively, his
foreman, who stood six inches taller than any man in a crowd of tall
men, tapped himself on the breast with one forefinger, and with the
other pointed at his dusky champion, saying, “Keep your eye on me,
Price. We’re going home together, remember. You black rascal, you can
make a mocking bird ashamed of itself if you try. You know I’ve swore
by you through thick and thin; now win this money. Pay no attention to
any one else. Keep your eye on me.”
Straw, not to be outdone in encouragement, cheered his man with
promises of reward, and his faction of supporters raised such a din
that Fant’s man arose, and demanded quiet so the contest could
proceed. Though boisterous, the crowd was good-tempered, and after the
second number was disposed of, the final test was announced, which was
to be in sacred music. On this announcement, the tall foreman waded
through the crowd, and drawing the darky to him, whispered something
in his ear, and then fell back to his former position. The dusky
artist’s countenance brightened, and with a few preliminaries he
struck into “The Arkansaw Traveler,” throwing so many contortions into
its execution that it seemed as if life and liberty depended on his
exertions. The usual applause greeted him on its conclusion, when Nat
Straw climbed up on the wagon wheel, and likewise whispered something
to his champion. The little, old, weazened mendicant took his cue, and
cut into “The Irish Washerwoman” with a great flourish, and in the
refrain chanted an unintelligible gibberish like the yelping of a
coyote, which the audience so cheered that he repeated it several
times. The crowd now gathered around the wagons and clamored for the
decision, and after consulting among ourselves some little time, and
knowing that a neutral or indefinite verdict was desired, we delegated
the bartender to announce our conclusions. Taking off his hat, he
arose, and after requesting quietness, pretended to read our decision.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “your judges feel a delicacy in passing on the
merits of such distinguished artists, but in the first number the
decision is unanimously in favor of the darky, while the second is
clearly in favor of the white contestant. In regard to the last test,
your judges cannot reach any decision, as the selections rendered fail
to qualify under the head of”--
But two shots rang out in rapid succession across the street, and the
crowd, including the judges and fiddlers, rushed away to witness the
new excitement. The shooting had occurred in a restaurant, and quite a
mob gathered around the door, when the sheriff emerged from the
building.
“It’s nothing,” said he; “just a couple of punchers, who had been
drinking a little, were eating a snack, and one of them asked for a
second dish of prunes, when the waiter got gay and told him that he
couldn’t have them,--‘that he was full of prunes now.’ So the lad took
a couple of shots at him, just to learn him to be more courteous to
strangers. There was no harm done, as the puncher was too unsteady.”
As the crowd dispersed from the restaurant, I returned to the livery
stable, where Straw and several of our outfit were explaining to the
old mendicant that he had simply outplayed his opponent, and it was
too bad that they were not better posted in sacred music. Under
Straw’s leadership, a purse was being made up amongst them, and the
old man’s eyes brightened as he received several crisp bills and a
handful of silver. Straw was urging the old fiddler to post himself in
regard to sacred music, and he would get up another match for the next
day, when Rod Wheat came up and breathlessly informed Officer and
myself that The Rebel wanted us over at the Black Elephant gambling
hall. As we turned to accompany him, we eagerly inquired if there were
any trouble. Wheat informed us there was not, but that Priest was
playing in one of the biggest streaks of luck that ever happened.
“Why, the old man is just wallowing in velvet,” said Rod, as we
hurried along, “and the dealer has lowered the limit from a hundred to
fifty, for old Paul is playing them as high as a cat’s tack. He isn’t
drinking a drop, and is as cool as a cucumber. I don’t know what he
wants with you fellows, but he begged me to hunt you up and send you
to him.”
The Black Elephant was about a block from the livery, and as we
entered, a large crowd of bystanders were watching the playing around
one of the three monte games which were running. Elbowing our way
through the crowd, we reached my bunkie, whom Officer slapped on the
back and inquired what he wanted.
“Why, I want you and Quirk to bet a little money for me,” he replied.
“My luck is with me to-day, and when I try to crowd it, this layout
gets foxy and pinches the limit down to fifty. Here, take this money
and cover both those other games. Call out as they fall the layouts,
and I’ll pick the card to bet the money on. And bet her carelessly,
boys, for she’s velvet.”
As he spoke he gave Officer and myself each a handful of uncounted
money, and we proceeded to carry out his instructions. I knew the game
perfectly, having spent several years’ earnings on my tuition, and was
past master in the technical Spanish terms of the game, while Officer
was equally informed. John took the table to the right, while I took
the one on the left, and waiting for a new deal, called the cards as
they fell. I inquired the limit of the dealer, and was politely
informed that it was fifty to-day. At first our director ordered a
number of small bets made, as though feeling his way, for cards will
turn; but as he found the old luck was still with him, he gradually
increased them to the limit. After the first few deals, I caught on to
his favorite cards, which were the queen and seven, and on these we
bet the limit. Aces and a “face against an ace” were also favorite
bets of The Rebel’s, but for a smaller sum. During the first hour of
my playing--to show the luck of cards--the queen won five consecutive
times, once against a favorite at the conclusion of a deal. My
judgment was to take up this bet, but Priest ordered otherwise, for it
was one of his principles never to doubt a card as long as it won for
you.
The play had run along some time, and as I was absorbed with watching,
some one behind me laid a friendly hand on my shoulder. Having every
card in the layout covered with a bet at the time, and supposing it to
be some of our outfit, I never looked around, when there came a slap
on my back which nearly loosened my teeth. Turning to see who was
making so free with me when I was absorbed, my eye fell on my brother
Zack, but I had not time even to shake hands with him, for two cards
won in succession and the dealer was paying me, while the queen and
seven were covered to the limit and were yet to be drawn for. When the
deal ended and while the dealer was shuffling, I managed to get a few
words with my brother, and learned that he had come through with a
herd belonging to one-armed Jim Reed, and that they were holding about
ten miles up the river. He had met Flood, who told him that I was in
town; but as he was working on first guard with their herd, it was
high time he was riding. The dealer was waiting for me to cut the
cards, and stopping only to wring Zack’s hand in farewell, I turned
again to the monte layout.
Officer was not so fortunate as I was, partly by reason of delays, the
dealer in his game changing decks on almost every deal, and under
Priest’s orders, we counted the cards with every change of the deck. A
gambler would rather burn money than lose to a citizen, and every
hoodoo which the superstition of the craft could invoke to turn the
run of the cards was used to check us. Several hours passed and the
lamps were lighted, but we constantly added to the good--to the
discomfiture of the owners of the games. Dealers changed, but our
vigilance never relaxed for a moment. Suddenly an altercation sprang
up between Officer and the dealer of his game. The seven had proved
the most lucky card to John, which fact was as plain to dealer as to
player, but the dealer, by slipping one seven out of the pack after it
had been counted, which was possible in the hands of an adept in spite
of all vigilance, threw the percentage against the favorite card and
in favor of the bank. Officer had suspected something wrong, for the
seven had been loser during several deals, when with a seven-king
layout, and two cards of each class yet in the pack, the dealer drew
down until there were less than a dozen cards left, when the king
came, which lost a fifty dollar bet on the seven. Officer laid his
hand on the money, and, as was his privilege, said to the dealer, “Let
me look over the remainder of those cards. If there’s two sevens
there, you have won. If there isn’t, don’t offer to touch this bet.”
But the gambler declined the request, and Officer repeated his demand,
laying a blue-barreled six-shooter across the bet with the remark,
“Well, if you expect to rake in this bet you have my terms.”
Evidently the demand would not have stood the test, for the dealer
bunched the deck among the passed cards, and Officer quietly raked in
the money. “When I want a skin game,” said John, as he arose, “I’ll
come back and see you. You saw me take this money, did you? Well, if
you’ve got anything to say, now’s your time to spit it out.”
But his calling had made the gambler discreet, and he deigned no reply
to the lank Texan, who, chafing under the attempt to cheat him, slowly
returned his six-shooter to its holster. Although holding my own in my
game, I was anxious to have it come to a close, but neither of us
cared to suggest it to The Rebel; it was his money. But Officer passed
outside the house shortly afterward, and soon returned with Jim Flood
and Nat Straw.
As our foreman approached the table at which Priest was playing, he
laid his hand on The Rebel’s shoulder and said, “Come on, Paul, we’re
all ready to go to camp. Where’s Quirk?”
Priest looked up in innocent amazement,--as though he had been
awakened out of a deep sleep, for, in the absorption of the game, he
had taken no note of the passing hours and did not know that the lamps
were burning. My bunkie obeyed as promptly as though the orders had
been given by Don Lovell in person, and, delighted with the turn of
affairs, I withdrew with him. Once in the street, Nat Straw threw an
arm around The Rebel’s neck and said to him, “My dear sir, the secret
of successful gambling is to quit when you’re winner, and before luck
turns. You may think this is a low down trick, but we’re your friends,
and when we heard that you were a big winner, we were determined to
get you out of there if we had to rope and drag you out. How much are
you winner?”
Before the question could be correctly answered, we sat down on the
sidewalk and the three of us disgorged our winnings, so that Flood and
Straw could count. Priest was the largest winner, Officer the
smallest, while I never will know the amount of mine, as I had no idea
what I started with. But the tellers’ report showed over fourteen
hundred dollars among the three of us. My bunkie consented to allow
Flood to keep it for him, and the latter attempted to hurrah us off to
camp, but John Officer protested.
“Hold on a minute, Jim,” said Officer. “We’re in rags; we need some
clothes. We’ve been in town long enough, and we’ve got the price, but
it’s been such a busy afternoon with us that we simply haven’t had the
time.”
Straw took our part, and Flood giving in, we entered a general
outfitting store, from which we emerged within a quarter of an hour,
wearing cheap new suits, the color of which we never knew until the
next day. Then bidding Straw a hearty farewell, we rode for the North
Platte, on which the herd would encamp. As we scaled the bluffs, we
halted for our last glimpse of the lights of Ogalalla, and The Rebel
remarked, “Boys, I’ve traveled some in my life, but that little hole
back there could give Natchez-under-the-hill cards and spades, and
then outhold her as a tough town.”