THE NORTH PLATTE
It was now July. We had taken on new supplies at Ogalalla, and a week
afterwards the herd was snailing along the North Platte on its way to
the land of the Blackfeet. It was always hard to get a herd past a
supply point. We had the same trouble when we passed Dodge. Our long
hours in the saddle, coupled with the monotony of our work, made these
supply points of such interest to us that they were like oases in
desert lands to devotees on pilgrimage to some consecrated shrine. We
could have spent a week in Ogalalla and enjoyed our visit every
blessed moment of the time. But now, a week later, most of the
headaches had disappeared and we had settled down to our daily work.
At Horse Creek, the last stream of water before entering Wyoming, a
lad who cut the trail at that point for some cattle companies, after
trimming us up, rode along for half a day through their range, and
told us of an accident which happened about a week before. The horse
of some peeler, working with one of Shanghai Pierce’s herds, acted up
one morning, and fell backward with him so that his gun accidentally
discharged. The outfit lay over a day and gave him as decent a burial
as they could. We would find the new-made grave ahead on Squaw Creek,
beyond the crossing, to the right hand side in a clump of cottonwoods.
The next day, while watering the herd at this creek, we all rode over
and looked at the grave. The outfit had fixed things up quite nicely.
They had built a square pen of rough cottonwood logs around the grave,
and had marked the head and foot with a big flat stone, edged up,
heaping up quite a mound of stones to keep the animals away. In a tree
his name was cut--sounded natural, too, though none of us knew him, as
Pierce always drove from the east coast country. There was nothing
different about this grave from the hundreds of others which made
landmarks on the Old Western Trail, except it was the latest.
That night around the camp-fire some of the boys were moved to tell
their experiences. This accident might happen to any of us, and it
seemed rather short notice to a man enjoying life, even though his
calling was rough.
“As for myself,” said Rod Wheat, “I’m not going to fret. You can’t
avoid it when it comes, and every now and then you miss it by a hair.
I had an uncle who served four years in the Confederate army, went
through thirty engagements, was wounded half a dozen times, and came
home well and sound. Within a month after his return, a plough handle
kicked him in the side and we buried him within a week.”
“Oh, well,” said Fox, commenting on the sudden call of the man whose
grave we had seen, “it won’t make much difference to this fellow back
here when the horn toots and the graves give up their dead. He might
just as well start from there as anywhere. I don’t envy him none,
though; but if I had any pity to offer now, it would be for a mother
or sister who might wish that he slept nearer home.”
This last remark carried our minds far away from their present
surroundings to other graves which were not on the trail. There was a
long silence. We lay around the camp-fire and gazed into its depths,
while its flickering light threw our shadows out beyond the circle.
Our reverie was finally broken by Ash Borrowstone, who was by all odds
the most impressionable and emotional one in the outfit, a man who
always argued the moral side of every question, yet could not be
credited with possessing an iota of moral stamina. Gloomy as we were,
he added to our depression by relating a pathetic incident which
occurred at a child’s funeral, when Flood reproved him, saying,--
“Well, neither that one you mention, nor this one of Pierce’s man is
any of our funeral. We’re on the trail with Lovell’s cattle. You
should keep nearer the earth.”
There was a long silence after this reproof of the foreman. It was
evident there was a gloom settling over the outfit. Our thoughts were
ranging wide. At last Rod Wheat spoke up and said that in order to get
the benefit of all the variations, the blues were not a bad thing to
have.
But the depression of our spirits was not so easily dismissed. In
order to avoid listening to the gloomy tales that were being narrated
around the camp-fire, a number of us got up and went out as if to look
up the night horses on picket. The Rebel and I pulled our picket pins
and changed our horses to fresh grazing, and after lying down among
the horses, out of hearing of the camp, for over an hour, returned to
the wagon expecting to retire. A number of the boys were making down
their beds, as it was already late; but on our arrival at the fire one
of the boys had just concluded a story, as gloomy as the others which
had preceded it.
“These stories you are all telling to-night,” said Flood, “remind me
of what Lige Link said to the book agent when he was shearing sheep.
‘I reckon,’ said Lige, ‘that book of yours has a heap sight more
poetry in it than there is in shearing sheep.’ I wish I had gone on
guard to-night, so I could have missed these stories.”
At this juncture the first guard rode in, having been relieved, and
John Officer, who had exchanged places on guard that night with Moss
Strayhorn, remarked that the cattle were uneasy.
“This outfit,” said he, “didn’t half water the herd to-day. One third
of them hasn’t bedded down yet, and they don’t act as if they aim to,
either. There’s no excuse for it in a well-watered country like this.
I’ll leave the saddle on my horse, anyhow.”
“Now that’s the result,” said our foreman, “of the hour we spent
around that grave to-day, when we ought to have been tending to our
job. This outfit,” he continued, when Officer returned from picketing
his horse, “have been trying to hold funeral services over that Pierce
man’s grave back there. You’d think so, anyway, from the tales they’ve
been telling. I hope you won’t get the sniffles and tell any.”
“This letting yourself get gloomy,” said Officer, “reminds me of a
time we once had at the ‘J.H.’ camp in the Cherokee Strip. It was near
Christmas, and the work was all done up. The boys had blowed in their
summer’s wages and were feeling glum all over. One or two of the boys
were lamenting that they hadn’t gone home to see the old folks. This
gloomy feeling kept spreading until they actually wouldn’t speak to
each other. One of them would go out and sit on the wood pile for
hours, all by himself, and make a new set of good resolutions. Another
would go out and sit on the ground, on the sunny side of the corrals,
and dig holes in the frozen earth with his knife. They wouldn’t come
to meals when the cook called them.
“Now, Miller, the foreman, didn’t have any sympathy for them; in fact
he delighted to see them in that condition. He hadn’t any use for a
man who wasn’t dead tough under any condition. I’ve known him to camp
his outfit on alkali water, so the men would get out in the morning,
and every rascal beg leave to ride on the outside circle on the
morning roundup.
“Well, three days before Christmas, just when things were looking
gloomiest, there drifted up from the Cheyenne country one of the old
timers. None of them had seen him in four years, though he had worked
on that range before, and with the exception of myself, they all knew
him. He was riding the chuckline all right, but Miller gave him a
welcome, as he was the real thing. He had been working out in the
Pan-handle country, New Mexico, and the devil knows where, since he
had left that range. He was meaty with news and scarey stories. The
boys would sit around and listen to him yarn, and now and then a smile
would come on their faces. Miller was delighted with his guest. He had
shown no signs of letting up at eleven o’clock the first night, when
he happened to mention where he was the Christmas before.
“‘There was a little woman at the ranch,’ said he, ‘wife of the owner,
and I was helping her get up dinner, as we had quite a number of folks
at the ranch. She asked me to make the bear sign--doughnuts, she
called them--and I did, though she had to show me how some little.
Well, fellows, you ought to have seen them--just sweet enough, browned
to a turn, and enough to last a week. All the folks at dinner that day
praised them. Since then, I’ve had a chance to try my hand several
times, and you may not tumble to the diversity of all my
accomplishments, but I’m an artist on bear sign.’
“Miller arose, took him by the hand, and said, ‘That’s straight, now,
is it?’
“‘That’s straight. Making bear sign is my long suit.’
“‘Mouse,’ said Miller to one of the boys, ‘go out and bring in his
saddle from the stable and put it under my bed. Throw his horse in the
big pasture in the morning. He stays here until spring; and the first
spear of green grass I see, his name goes on the pay roll. This outfit
is shy on men who can make bear sign. Now, I was thinking that you
could spread down your blankets on the hearth, but you can sleep with
me to-night. You go to work on this specialty of yours right after
breakfast in the morning, and show us what you can do in that line.’
“They talked quite a while longer, and then turned in for the night.
The next morning after breakfast was over, he got the needed articles
together and went to work. But there was a surprise in store for him.
There was nearly a dozen men lying around, all able eaters. By ten
o’clock he began to turn them out as he said he could. When the
regular cook had to have the stove to get dinner, the taste which we
had had made us ravenous for more. Dinner over, he went at them again
in earnest. A boy riding towards the railroad with an important letter
dropped in, and as he claimed he could only stop for a moment, we
stood aside until he had had a taste, though he filled himself like a
poisoned pup. After eating a solid hour, he filled his pockets and
rode away. One of our regular men called after him, ‘Don’t tell
anybody what we got.’
“We didn’t get any supper that night. Not a man could have eaten a
bite. Miller made him knock off along in the shank of the evening, as
he had done enough for any one day. The next morning after breakfast
he fell to at the bear sign once more. Miller rolled a barrel of flour
into the kitchen from the storehouse, and told him to fly at them.
‘About how many do you think you’ll want?’ asked our bear sign man.
“‘That big tub full won’t be any too many,’ answered Miller. ‘Some of
these fellows haven’t had any of this kind of truck since they were
little boys. If this gets out, I look for men from other camps.’
“The fellow fell to his work like a thoroughbred, which he surely was.
About ten o’clock two men rode up from a camp to the north, which the
boy had passed the day before with the letter. They never went near
the dug-out, but straight to the kitchen. That movement showed that
they were on to the racket. An hour later old Tom Cave rode in, his
horse all in a lather, all the way from Garretson’s camp, twenty-five
miles to the east. The old sinner said that he had been on the
frontier some little time, and that there were the best bear sign he
had tasted in forty years. He refused to take a stool and sit down
like civilized folks, but stood up by the tub and picked out the ones
which were a pale brown.
“After dinner our man threw off his overshirt, unbuttoned his red
undershirt and turned it in until you could see the hair on his
breast. Rolling up his sleeves, he flew at his job once more. He was
getting his work reduced to a science by this time. He rolled his
dough, cut his dough, and turned out the fine brown bear sign to the
satisfaction of all.
“His capacity, however, was limited. About two o’clock Doc Langford
and two of his peelers were seen riding up. When he came into the
kitchen, Doc swore by all that was good and holy that he hadn’t heard
that our artist had come back to that country. But any one that was
noticing could see him edge around to the tub. It was easy to see that
he was lying. This luck of ours was circulating faster than a secret
amongst women. Our man, though, stood at his post like the boy on the
burning deck. When night came on, he hadn’t covered the bottom of the
tub. When he knocked off, Doc Langford and his men gobbled up what was
left. We gave them a mean look as they rode off, but they came back
the next day, five strong. Our regular men around camp didn’t like it,
the way things were going. They tried to act polite to”--
“Calling bear sign doughnuts,” interrupted Quince Forrest, “reminds me
what”--
“Will you kindly hobble your lip,” said Officer; “I have the floor at
present. As I was saying, they tried to act polite to company that
way, but we hadn’t got a smell the second day. Our man showed no signs
of fatigue, and told several good stories that night. He was tough.
The next day was Christmas, but he had no respect for a holiday, and
made up a large batch of dough before breakfast. It was a good thing
he did, for early that morning ‘Original’ John Smith and four of his
peelers rode in from the west, their horses all covered with frost.
They must have started at daybreak--it was a good twenty-two mile
ride. They wanted us to believe that they had simply come over to
spend Christmas with us. Company that way, you can’t say anything. But
the easy manner in which they gravitated around that tub--not even
waiting to be invited--told a different tale. They were not nearly
satisfied by noon.
“Then who should come drifting in as we were sitting down to dinner,
but Billy Dunlap and Jim Hale from Quinlin’s camp, thirty miles south
on the Cimarron. Dunlap always holed up like a bear in the winter, and
several of the boys spilled their coffee at sight of him. He put up a
thin excuse just like the rest. Any one could see through it. But
there it was again--he was company. Lots of us had eaten at his camp
and complained of his chuck; therefore, we were nice to him. Miller
called our man out behind the kitchen and told him to knock off if he
wanted to. But he wouldn’t do it. He was clean strain--I’m not
talking. Dunlap ate hardly any dinner, we noticed, and the very first
batch of bear sign turned out, he loads up a tin plate and goes out
and sits behind the storehouse in the sun, all alone in his glory. He
satisfied himself out of the tub after that.
“He and Hale stayed all night, and Dunlap kept every one awake with
the nightmare. Yes, kept fighting the demons all night. The next
morning Miller told him that he was surprised that an old gray-haired
man like him didn’t know when he had enough, but must gorge himself
like some silly kid. Miller told him that he was welcome to stay a
week if he wanted to, but he would have to sleep in the stable. It was
cruel to the horses, but the men were entitled to a little sleep, at
least in the winter. Miller tempered his remarks with all kindness,
and Dunlap acted as if he was sorry, and as good as admitted that his
years were telling on him. That day our man filled his tub. He was
simply an artist on bear sign.”
“Calling bear sign doughnuts,” cut in Quince Forrest again, as soon as
he saw an opening, “reminds me what the little boy said who went”--
But there came a rumbling of many hoofs from the bed ground. “There’s
hell for you,” said half a dozen men in a chorus, and every man in
camp ran for his horse but the cook, and he climbed into the wagon.
The roar of the running cattle was like approaching thunder, but the
flash from the six-shooters of the men on guard indicated they were
quartering by camp, heading out towards the hills. Horses became so
excited they were difficult to bridle. There was plenty of earnest and
sincere swearing done that night. All the fine sentiment and
melancholy of the hour previous vanished in a moment, as the men threw
themselves into their saddles, riding deep, for it was uncertain
footing to horses.
Within two minutes from the time the herd left the bed ground,
fourteen of us rode on their left point and across their front, firing
our six-shooters in their faces. By the time the herd had covered a
scant mile, we had thrown them into a mill. They had run so compactly
that there were no stragglers, so we loosened out and gave them room;
but it was a long time before they relaxed any, but continued going
round and round like a water wheel or an endless chain. The foreman
ordered three men on the heaviest horses to split them. The men rode
out a short distance to get the required momentum, wheeled their
horses, and, wedge-shaped, struck this sea of cattle and entered, but
it instantly closed in their wake as though it had been water. For an
hour they rode through the herd, back and forth, now from this
quarter, now from that, and finally the mill was broken. After
midnight, as luck would have it, heavy dark clouds banked in the
northwest, and lightning flashed, and before a single animal had lain
down, a drizzling rain set in. That settled it; it was an all-night
job now. We drifted about hither and yon. Horses, men, and cattle
turned their backs to the wind and rain and waited for morning. We
were so familiar with the signs of coming day that we turned them
loose half an hour before dawn, leaving herders, and rode for camp.
As we groped our way in that dark hour before dawn, hungry, drenched,
and bedraggled, there was nothing gleeful about us, while Bob Blades
expressed his disgust over our occupation. “If ever I get home again,”
said he, and the tones of his voice were an able second to his
remarks, “you all can go up the trail that want to, but here’s one
chicken that won’t. There isn’t a cowman in Texas who has money enough
to hire me again.”
“Ah, hell, now,” said Bull, “you oughtn’t to let a little rain ruffle
your feathers that way. Cheer up, sonny; you may be rich some day yet
and walk on brussels and velvet.”