OUR LAST CAMP-FIRE
By early dawn the next morning we were astir at our last camp on Sweet
Grass, and before the horses were brought in, we had put on the wagon
box and reloaded our effects. The rainy season having ended in the
mountain regions, the stage of water in the Yellowstone would present
no difficulties in fording, and our foreman was anxious to make a long
drive that day so as to make up for our enforced lay-over. We had
breakfasted by the time the horses were corralled, and when we
overtook the grazing herd, the cattle were within a mile of the river.
Flood had looked over the ford the day before, and took one point of
the herd as we went down into the crossing. The water was quite chilly
to the cattle, though the horses in the lead paid little attention to
it, the water in no place being over three feet deep. A number of
spectators had come up from Frenchman’s to watch the herd ford, the
crossing being about half a mile above the village. No one made any
inquiry for Priest, though ample opportunity was given them to see
that the gray-haired man was missing. After the herd had crossed, a
number of us lent a rope in assisting the wagon over, and when we
reached the farther bank, we waved our hats to the group on the south
side in farewell to them and to Frenchman’s Ford.
The trail on leaving the river led up Many Berries, one of the
tributaries of the Yellowstone putting in from the north side; and we
paralleled it mile after mile. It was with difficulty that riders
could be kept on the right hand side of the herd, for along it grew
endless quantities of a species of upland huckleberry, and, breaking
off branches, we feasted as we rode along. The grade up this creek was
quite pronounced, for before night the channel of the creek had
narrowed to several yards in width. On the second day out the wild
fruit disappeared early in the morning, and after a continued gradual
climb, we made camp that night on the summit of the divide within
plain sight of the Musselshell River. From this divide there was a
splendid view of the surrounding country as far as eye could see. To
our right, as we neared the summit, we could see in that rarefied
atmosphere the buttes, like sentinels on duty, as they dotted the
immense tableland between the Yellowstone and the mother Missouri,
while on our left lay a thousand hills, untenanted save by the deer,
elk, and a remnant of buffalo. Another half day’s drive brought us to
the shoals on the Musselshell, about twelve miles above the entrance
of Flatwillow Creek. It was one of the easiest crossings we had
encountered in many a day, considering the size of the river and the
flow of water. Long before the advent of the white man, these shoals
had been in use for generations by the immense herds of buffalo and
elk migrating back and forth between their summer ranges and winter
pasturage, as the converging game trails on either side indicated. It
was also an old Indian ford. After crossing and resuming our afternoon
drive, the cattle trail ran within a mile of the river, and had it not
been for the herd of northern wintered cattle, and possibly others,
which had passed along a month or more in advance of us, it would have
been hard to determine which were cattle and which were game trails,
the country being literally cut up with these pathways.
When within a few miles of the Flatwillow, the trail bore off to the
northwest, and we camped that night some distance below the junction
of the former creek with the Big Box Elder. Before our watch had been
on guard twenty minutes that night, we heard some one whistling in the
distance; and as whoever it was refused to come any nearer the herd, a
thought struck me, and I rode out into the darkness and hailed him.
“Is that you, Tom?” came the question to my challenge, and the next
minute I was wringing the hand of my old bunkie, The Rebel. I assured
him that the coast was clear, and that no inquiry had been even made
for him the following morning, when crossing the Yellowstone, by any
of the inhabitants of Frenchman’s Ford. He returned with me to the bed
ground, and meeting Honeyman as he circled around, was almost unhorsed
by the latter’s warmth of reception, and Officer’s delight on meeting
my bunkie was none the less demonstrative. For nearly half an hour he
rode around with one or the other of us, and as we knew he had had
little if any sleep for the last three nights, all of us begged him to
go on into camp and go to sleep. But the old rascal loafed around with
us on guard, seemingly delighted with our company and reluctant to
leave. Finally Honeyman and I prevailed on him to go to the wagon, but
before leaving us he said, “Why, I’ve been in sight of the herd for
the last day and night, but I’m getting a little tired of lying out
with the dry cattle these cool nights, and living on huckleberries and
grouse, so I thought I’d just ride in and get a fresh horse and a
square meal once more. But if Flood says stay, you’ll see me at my old
place on the point to-morrow.”
Had the owner of the herd suddenly appeared in camp, he could not have
received such an ovation as was extended Priest the next morning when
his presence became known. From the cook to the foreman, they gathered
around our bed, where The Rebel sat up in the blankets and held an
informal reception; and two hours afterward he was riding on the right
point of the herd as if nothing had happened. We had a fair trail up
Big Box Elder, and for the following few days, or until the source of
that creek was reached, met nothing to check our course. Our foreman
had been riding in advance of the herd, and after returning to us at
noon one day, reported that the trail turned a due northward course
towards the Missouri, and all herds had seemingly taken it. As we had
to touch at Fort Benton, which was almost due westward, he had
concluded to quit the trail and try to intercept the military road
running from Fort Maginnis to Benton. Maginnis lay to the south of us,
and our foreman hoped to strike the military road at an angle on as
near a westward course as possible.
Accordingly after dinner he set out to look out the country, and took
me with him. We bore off toward the Missouri, and within half an
hour’s ride after leaving the trail we saw some loose horses about
three miles distant, down in a little valley through which flowed a
creek towards the Musselshell. We reined in and watched the horses
several minutes, when we both agreed from their movements that they
were hobbled. We scouted out some five or six miles, finding the
country somewhat rough, but passable for a herd and wagon. Flood was
anxious to investigate those hobbled horses, for it bespoke the camp
of some one in the immediate vicinity. On our return, the horses were
still in view, and with no little difficulty, we descended from the
mesa into the valley and reached them. To our agreeable surprise, one
of them was wearing a bell, while nearly half of them were hobbled,
there being twelve head, the greater portion of which looked like pack
horses. Supposing the camp, if there was one, must be up in the hills,
we followed a bridle path up stream in search of it, and soon came
upon four men, placer mining on the banks of the creek.
When we made our errand known, one of these placer miners, an elderly
man who seemed familiar with the country, expressed some doubts about
our leaving the trail, though he said there was a bridle path with
which he was acquainted across to the military road. Flood at once
offered to pay him well if he would pilot us across to the road, or
near enough so that we could find our way. The old placerman
hesitated, and after consulting among his partners, asked how we were
fixed for provision, explaining that they wished to remain a month or
so longer, and that game had been scared away from the immediate
vicinity, until it had become hard to secure meat. But he found Flood
ready in that quarter, for he immediately offered to kill a beef and
load down any two pack horses they had, if he would consent to pilot
us over to within striking distance of the Fort Benton road. The offer
was immediately accepted, and I was dispatched to drive in their
horses. Two of the placer miners accompanied us back to the trail,
both riding good saddle horses and leading two others under pack
saddles. We overtook the herd within a mile of the point where the
trail was to be abandoned, and after sending the wagon ahead, our
foreman asked our guests to pick out any cow or steer in the herd.
When they declined, he cut out a fat stray cow which had come into the
herd down on the North Platte, had her driven in after the wagon,
killed and quartered. When we had laid the quarters on convenient
rocks to cool and harden during the night, our future pilot timidly
inquired what we proposed to do with the hide, and on being informed
that he was welcome to it, seemed delighted, remarking, as I helped
him to stake it out where it would dry, that “rawhide was mighty handy
repairing pack saddles.”
Our visitors interested us, for it is probable that not a man in our
outfit had ever seen a miner before, though we had read of the life
and were deeply interested in everything they did or said. They were
very plain men and of simple manners, but we had great difficulty in
getting them to talk. After supper, while idling away a couple of
hours around our camp-fire, the outfit told stories, in the hope that
our guests would become reminiscent and give us some insight into
their experiences, Bob Blades leading off.
“I was in a cow town once up on the head of the Chisholm trail at a
time when a church fair was being pulled off. There were lots of old
long-horn cowmen living in the town, who owned cattle in that Cherokee
Strip that Officer is always talking about. Well, there’s lots of
folks up there that think a nigger is as good as anybody else, and
when you find such people set in their ways, it’s best not to argue
matters with them, but lay low and let on you think that way too.
That’s the way those old Texas cowmen acted about it.
“Well, at this church fair there was to be voted a prize of a nice
baby wagon, which had been donated by some merchant, to the prettiest
baby under a year old. Colonel Bob Zellers was in town at the time,
stopping at a hotel where the darky cook was a man who had once worked
for him on the trail. ‘Frog,’ the darky, had married when he quit the
colonel’s service, and at the time of this fair there was a pickaninny
in his family about a year old, and nearly the color of a new saddle.
A few of these old cowmen got funny and thought it would be a good
joke to have Frog enter his baby at the fair, and Colonel Bob being
the leader in the movement, he had no trouble convincing the darky
that that baby wagon was his, if he would only enter his youngster.
Frog thought the world of the old Colonel, and the latter assured him
that he would vote for his baby while he had a dollar or a cow left.
The result was, Frog gave his enthusiastic consent, and the Colonel
agreed to enter the pickaninny in the contest.
“Well, the Colonel attended to the entering of the baby’s name, and
then on the dead quiet went around and rustled up every cowman and
puncher in town, and had them promise to be on hand, to vote for the
prettiest baby at ten cents a throw. The fair was being held in the
largest hall in town, and at the appointed hour we were all on hand,
as well as Frog and his wife and baby. There were about a dozen
entries, and only one blackbird in the covey. The list of contestants
was read by the minister, and as each name was announced, there was a
vigorous clapping of hands all over the house by the friends of each
baby. But when the name of Miss Precilla June Jones was announced, the
Texas contingent made their presence known by such a deafening
outburst of applause that old Frog grinned from ear to ear--he saw
himself right then pushing that baby wagon.
“Well, on the first heat we voted sparingly, and as the vote was read
out about every quarter hour, Precilla June Jones on the first turn
was fourth in the race. On the second report, our favorite had moved
up to third place, after which the weaker ones were deserted, and all
the voting blood was centered on the two white leaders, with our
blackbird a close third. We were behaving ourselves nicely, and our
money was welcome if we weren’t. When the third vote was announced,
Frog’s pickaninny was second in the race, with her nose lapped on the
flank of the leader. Then those who thought a darky was as good as any
one else got on the prod in a mild form, and you could hear them
voicing their opinions all over the hall. We heard it all, but sat as
nice as pie and never said a word.
“When the final vote was called for, we knew it was the home stretch,
and every rascal of us got his weasel skin out and sweetened the
voting on Miss Precilla June Jones. Some of those old long-horns
didn’t think any more of a twenty-dollar gold piece than I do of a
white chip, especially when there was a chance to give those good
people a dose of their own medicine. I don’t know how many votes we
cast on the last whirl, but we swamped all opposition, and our
favorite cantered under the wire an easy winner. Then you should have
heard the kicking, but we kept still and inwardly chuckled. The
minister announced the winner, and some of those good people didn’t
have any better manners than to hiss and cut up ugly. We stayed until
Frog got the new baby wagon in his clutches, when we dropped out
casually and met at the Ranch saloon, where Colonel Zellers had taken
possession behind the bar and was dispensing hospitality in proper
celebration of his victory.”
Much to our disappointment, our guests remained silent and showed no
disposition to talk, except to answer civil questions which Flood
asked regarding the trail crossing on the Missouri, and what that
river was like in the vicinity of old Fort Benton. When the questions
had been answered, they again relapsed into silence. The fire was
replenished, and after the conversation had touched on several
subjects, Joe Stallings took his turn with a yarn.
“When my folks first came to Texas,” said Joe, “they settled in Ellis
County, near Waxahachie. My father was one of the pioneers in that
county at a time when his nearest neighbor lived ten miles from his
front gate. But after the war, when the country had settled up, these
old pioneers naturally hung together and visited and chummed with one
another in preference to the new settlers. One spring when I was about
fifteen years old, one of those old pioneer neighbors of ours died,
and my father decided that he would go to the funeral or burst a hame
string. If any of you know anything about that black-waxy, hog-wallow
land in Ellis County, you know that when it gets muddy in the spring a
wagon wheel will fill solid with waxy mud. So at the time of this
funeral it was impossible to go on the road with any kind of a
vehicle, and my father had to go on horseback. He was an old man at
the time and didn’t like the idea, but it was either go on horseback
or stay at home, and go he would.
“They raise good horses in Ellis County, and my father had raised some
of the best of them--brought the stock from Tennessee. He liked good
blood in a horse, and was always opposed to racing, but he raised some
boys who weren’t. I had a number of brothers older than myself, and
they took a special pride in trying every colt we raised, to see what
he amounted to in speed. Of course this had to be done away from home;
but that was easy, for these older brothers thought nothing of riding
twenty miles to a tournament, barbecue, or round-up, and when away
from home they always tried their horses with the best in the country.
At the time of this funeral, we had a crackerjack five year old
chestnut sorrel gelding that could show his heels to any horse in the
country. He was a peach,--you could turn him on a saddle blanket and
jump him fifteen feet, and that cow never lived that he couldn’t cut.
“So the day of the funeral my father was in a quandary as to which
horse to ride, but when he appealed to his boys, they recommended the
best on the ranch, which was the chestnut gelding. My old man had some
doubts as to his ability to ride the horse, for he hadn’t been on a
horse’s back for years; but my brothers assured him that the chestnut
was as obedient as a kitten, and that before he had been on the road
an hour the mud would take all the frisk and frolic out of him. There
was nearly fifteen miles to go, and they assured him that he would
never get there if he rode any other horse. Well, at last he consented
to ride the gelding, and the horse was made ready, properly groomed,
his tail tied up, and saddled and led up to the block. It took every
member of the family to get my father rigged to start, but at last he
announced himself as ready. Two of my brothers held the horse until he
found the off stirrup, and then they turned him loose. The chestnut
danced off a few rods, and settled down into a steady clip that was
good for five or six miles an hour.
“My father reached the house in good time for the funeral services,
but when the procession started for the burial ground, the horse was
somewhat restless and impatient from the cold. There was quite a
string of wagons and other vehicles from the immediate neighborhood
which had braved the mud, and the line was nearly half a mile in
length between the house and the graveyard. There were also possibly a
hundred men on horseback bringing up the rear of the procession; and
the chestnut, not understanding the solemnity of the occasion, was
right on his mettle. Surrounded as he was by other horses, he kept his
weather eye open for a race, for in coming home from dances and
picnics with my brothers, he had often been tried in short dashes of
half a mile or so. In order to get him out of the crowd of horses, my
father dropped back with another pioneer to the extreme rear of the
funeral line.
“When the procession was nearing the cemetery, a number of horsemen,
who were late, galloped up in the rear. The chestnut, supposing a race
was on, took the bit in his teeth and tore down past the procession as
though it was a free-for-all Texas sweepstakes, the old man’s white
beard whipping the breeze in his endeavor to hold in the horse. Nor
did he check him until the head of the procession had been passed.
When my father returned home that night, there was a family round-up,
for he was smoking under the collar. Of course, my brothers denied
having ever run the horse, and my mother took their part; but the old
gent knew a thing or two about horses, and shortly afterwards he got
even with his boys by selling the chestnut, which broke their hearts
properly.”
The elder of the two placer miners, a long-whiskered, pock-marked man,
arose, and after walking out from the fire some distance returned and
called our attention to signs in the sky, which he assured us were a
sure indication of a change in the weather. But we were more anxious
that he should talk about something else, for we were in the habit of
taking the weather just as it came. When neither one showed any
disposition to talk, Flood said to them,--
“It’s bedtime with us, and one of you can sleep with me, while I’ve
fixed up an extra bed for the other. I generally get out about
daybreak, but if that’s too early for you, don’t let my getting up
disturb you. And you fourth guard men, let the cattle off the bed
ground on a due westerly course and point them up the divide. Now get
to bed, everybody, for we want to make a big drive tomorrow.”