HIDE HUNTING
During the month of June only two showers fell, which revived the grass
but added not a drop of water to our tank supply or to the river. When
the coast winds which followed set in, all hope for rain passed for
another year. During the residence of the old ranchero at Las Palomas,
the Nueces valley had suffered several severe drouths as disastrous in
their effects as a pestilence. There were places in its miles of
meanderings across our range where the river was paved with the bones
of cattle which had perished with thirst. Realizing that such disasters
repeat themselves, the ranch was set in order. That fall we branded the
calf crop with unusual care. In every possible quarter, we prepared for
the worst. A dozen wells were sunk over the tract and equipped with
windmills. There was sufficient water in the river and tanks during the
summer and fall, but by Christmas the range was eaten off until the
cattle, ranging far, came in only every other day to slake their
thirst.
The social gayeties of the countryside received a check from the
threatened drouth. At Las Palomas we observed only the usual Christmas
festivities. Miss Jean always made it a point to have something extra
for the holiday season, not only in her own household, but also among
the Mexican families at headquarters and the outlying ranchites. Among
a number of delicacies brought up this time from Shepherd’s was a box
of Florida oranges, and in assisting Miss Jean to fill the baskets for
each _jacal_, Aaron Scales opened this box of oranges and found a
letter, evidently placed there by some mischievous girl in the packery
from which the oranges were shipped. There was not only a letter but a
visiting card and a small photograph of the writer. This could only be
accepted by the discoverer as a challenge, for the sender surely knew
this particular box was intended for shipment to Texas, and banteringly
invited the recipient to reply. The missive certainly fell upon fertile
soil, and Scales, by right of discovery, delegated to himself the
pleasure of answering.
Scales was the black sheep of Las Palomas. Born of a rich, aristocratic
family in Maryland, he had early developed into a good-natured but
reckless spendthrift, and his disreputable associates had contributed
no small part in forcing him to the refuge of a cattle ranch. He had
been offered every opportunity to secure a good education, but during
his last year in college had been expelled, and rather than face
parental reproach had taken passage in a coast schooner for Galveston,
Texas. Then by easy stages he drifted westward, and at last, to his
liking, found a home at Las Palomas. He made himself a useful man on
the ranch, but, not having been bred to the occupation and with a
tendency to waywardness, gave a rather free rein to the vagabond spirit
which possessed him. He was a good rider, even for a country where
every one was a born horseman, but the use of the rope was an art he
never attempted to master.
With the conclusion of the holiday festivities and on the return of the
absentees, a feature, new to me in cattle life, presented itself—hide
hunting. Freighters who brought merchandise from the coast towns to the
merchants of the interior were offering very liberal terms for return
cargoes. About the only local product was flint hides, and of these
there were very few, but the merchant at Shepherd’s Ferry offered so
generous inducements that Uncle Lance investigated the matter; the
result was his determination to rid his range of the old, logy,
worthless bulls. Heretofore they had been allowed to die of old age,
but ten cents a pound for flint hides was an encouragement to remove
these cumberers of the range, and turn them to some profit. So we were
ordered to kill every bull on the ranch over seven years old.
In our round-up for branding, we had driven to the home range all
outside cattle indiscriminately. They were still ranging near, so that
at the commencement of this work nearly all the bulls in our brand were
watering from the Nueces. These old residenter bulls never ranged over
a mile away from water, and during the middle of the day they could be
found along the river bank. Many of them were ten to twelve years old,
and were as useless on the range as drones in autumn to a colony of
honey-bees. Las Palomas boasted quite an arsenal of firearms, of every
make and pattern, from a musket to a repeater. The outfit was divided
into two squads, one going down nearly to Shepherd’s, and the other
beginning operations considerably above the Ganso. June Deweese took
the down-river end, while Uncle Lance took some ten of us with one
wagon on the up-river trip. To me this had all the appearance of a
picnic. But the work proved to be anything but a picnic. To make the
kill was most difficult. Not willing to leave the carcasses near the
river, we usually sought the bulls coming in to water; but an ordinary
charge of powder and lead, even when well directed at the forehead,
rarely killed and tended rather to aggravate the creature. Besides, as
we were compelled in nearly every instance to shoot from horseback, it
was almost impossible to deliver an effective shot from in front. After
one or more unsuccessful shots, the bull usually started for the
nearest thicket, or the river; then our ropes came into use. The work
was very slow; for though we operated in pairs, the first week we did
not average a hide a day to the man; after killing, there was the
animal to skin, the hide to be dragged from a saddle pommel into a hide
yard and pegged out to dry.
Until we had accumulated a load of hides, Tiburcio Leal, our teamster,
fell to me as partner. We had with us an abundance of our best horses,
and those who were reliable with the rope had first choice of the
_remuda_. Tiburcio was well mounted, but, on account of his years, was
timid about using a rope; and well he might be, for frequently we found
ourselves in a humorous predicament, and sometimes in one so grave that
hilarity was not even a remote possibility.
The second morning of the hunt, Tiburcio and I singled out a big black
bull about a mile from the river. I had not yet been convinced that I
could not make an effective shot from in front, and, dismounting,
attracted the bull’s attention and fired. The shot did not even stagger
him and he charged us; our horses avoided his rush, and he started for
the river. Sheathing my carbine, I took down my rope and caught him
before he had gone a hundred yards. As I threw my horse on his haunches
to receive the shock, the weight and momentum of the bull dragged my
double-cinched saddle over my horse’s head and sent me sprawling on the
ground. In wrapping the loose end of the rope around the pommel of the
saddle, I had given it a half hitch, and as I came to my feet my saddle
and carbine were bumping merrily along after Toro. Regaining my horse,
I soon overtook Tiburcio, who was attempting to turn the animal back
from the river, and urged him to “tie on,” but he hesitated, offering
me his horse instead. As there was no time to waste, we changed horses
like relay riders. I soon overtook the animal and made a successful
cast, catching the bull by the front feet. I threw Tiburcio’s horse,
like a wheeler, back on his haunches, and, on bringing the rope taut,
fetched Toro to his knees; but with the strain the half-inch manila
rope snapped at the pommel like a twine string. Then we were at our
wit’s end, the bull lumbering away with the second rope noosed over one
fore foot, and leaving my saddle far in the rear. But after a moment’s
hesitation my partner and I doubled on him, to make trial of our guns,
Tiburcio having a favorite old musket while I had only my six-shooter.
Tiburcio, on my stripped horse, overtook the bull first, and attempted
to turn him, but El Toro was not to be stopped. On coming up myself, I
tried the same tactics, firing several shots into the ground in front
of him but without deflecting the enraged bull from his course. Then I
unloosed a Mexican blanket from Tiburcio’s saddle, and flaunting it in
his face, led him like a matador inviting a charge. This held his
attention until Tiburcio, gaining courage, dashed past him from the
rear and planted a musket ball behind the base of his ear, and the
patriarch succumbed.
After the first few days’ work, we found that the most vulnerable spot
was where the spinal cord connects with the base of the brain. A
well-directed shot at this point, even from a six-shooter, never failed
to bring Toro to grass; and some of us became so expert that we could
deliver this favorite shot from a running horse. The trouble was to get
the bull to run evenly. That was one thing he objected to, and yet
unless he did we could not advantageously attack him with a
six-shooter. Many of these old bulls were surly in disposition, and
even when they did run, there was no telling what moment they would
sulk, stop without an instant’s notice, and attempt to gore a passing
horse.
We usually camped two or three days at a place, taking in both sides of
the river, and after the work was once well under way we kept our wagon
busy hauling the dry hides to a common yard on the river opposite Las
Palomas. Without apology, it can be admitted that we did not confine
our killing to the Las Palomas brand alone, but all cumberers on our
range met the same fate. There were numerous stray bulls belonging to
distant ranches which had taken up their abode on the Nueces, all of
which were fish to our net. We kept a brand tally of every bull thus
killed; for the primary motive was not one of profit, but to rid the
range of these drones.
When we had been at work some two weeks, we had an exciting chase one
afternoon in which Enrique Lopez figured as the hero. In coming in to
dinner that day, Uncle Lance told of the chase after a young _ladino_
bull with which we were all familiar. The old ranchero’s hatred to wild
cattle had caused him that morning to risk a long shot at this outlaw,
wounding him. Juan Leal and Enrique Lopez, who were there, had both
tried their marksmanship and their ropes on him in vain. Dragging down
horses and snapping ropes, the bull made his escape into a chaparral
thicket. He must have been exceedingly nimble; for I have seen Uncle
Lance kill a running deer at a hundred yards with a rifle. At any rate,
the entire squad turned out after dinner to renew the attack. We
saddled the best horses in our _remuda_ for the occasion, and sallied
forth to the lair of the _ladino_ bull, like a procession of
professional bull-fighters.
The chaparral thicket in which the outlaw had taken refuge lay about a
mile and a half back from the river and contained about two acres. On
reaching the edge of the thicket, Uncle Lance called for volunteers to
beat the brush and rout out the bull. As this must be done on foot,
responses were not numerous. But our employer relieved the
embarrassment by assigning vaqueros to the duty, also directing Enrique
to take one point of the thicket and me the other, with instructions to
use our ropes should the outlaw quit the thicket for the river.
Detailing Tiburcio, who was with us that afternoon, to assist him in
leading the loose saddle horses, he divided the six other men into two
squads under Theodore Quayle and Dan Happersett. When all was ready,
Enrique and myself took up our positions, hiding in the outlying
mesquite brush; leaving the loose horses under saddle in the cover at a
distance. The thicket was oval in form, lying with a point towards the
river, and we all felt confident if the bull were started he would make
for the timber on the river. With a whoop and hurrah and a free
discharge of firearms, the beaters entered the chaparral. From my
position I could see Enrique lying along the neck of his horse about
fifty yards distant; and I had fully made up my mind to give that
bucolic vaquero the first chance. During the past two weeks my
enthusiasm for roping stray bulls had undergone a change; I was now
quite willing that all honors of the afternoon should fall to Enrique.
The beaters approached without giving any warning that the bull had
been sighted, and so great was the strain and tension that I could feel
the beating of my horse’s heart beneath me. The suspense was finally
broken by one or two shots in rapid succession, and as the sound died
away, the voice of Juan Leal rang out distinctly: “Cuidado por el
toro!” and the next moment there was a cracking of brush and a pale dun
bull broke cover.
For a moment he halted on the border of the thicket: then, as the din
of the beaters increased, struck boldly across the prairie for the
river. Enrique and I were after him without loss of time. Enrique made
a successful cast for his horns, and reined in his horse; but when the
slack of the rope was taken up the rear cinch broke, the saddle was
jerked forward on the horse’s withers, and Enrique was compelled to
free the rope or have his horse dragged down. I saw the mishap, and,
giving my horse the rowel, rode at the bull and threw my rope. The loop
neatly encircled his front feet, and when the shock came between horse
and bull, it fetched the toro a somersault in the air, but unhappily
took off the pommel of my saddle. The bull was on his feet in a jiffy,
and before I could recover my rope, Enrique, who had reset his saddle,
passed me, followed by the entire squad. Uncle Lance had been a witness
to both mishaps, and on overtaking us urged me to tie on to the bull
again. For answer I could only point to my missing pommel; but every
man in the squad had loosened his rope, and it looked as if they would
all fasten on to the _ladino_, for they were all good ropers. Man after
man threw his loop on him; but the dun outlaw snapped the ropes as if
they had been cotton strings, dragging down two horses with their
riders and leaving them in the rear. I rode up alongside Enrique and
offered him my rope, but he refused it, knowing it would be useless to
try again with only a single cinch on his saddle. The young rascal had
a daring idea in mind. We were within a quarter mile of the river, and
escape of the outlaw seemed probable, when Enrique rode down on the
bull, took up his tail, and, wrapping the brush on the pommel of his
saddle, turned his horse abruptly to the left, rolling the bull over
like a hoop, and of course dismounting himself in the act. Then before
the dazed animal could rise, with the agility of a panther the vaquero
sprang astride his loins, and as he floundered, others leaped from
their horses. Toro was pinioned, and dispatched with a shot.
Then we loosened cinches to allow our heaving horses to breathe, and
threw ourselves on the ground for a moment’s rest. “That’s the best
kill we’ll make on this trip,” said Uncle Lance as we mounted, leaving
two vaqueros to take the hide. “I despise wild cattle, and I’ve been
hungering to get a shot at that fellow for the last three years.
Enrique, the day the baby is born, I’ll buy it a new cradle, and Tom
shall have a new saddle and we’ll charge it to Las Palomas—she’s the
girl that pays the bills.”
Scarcely a day passed but similar experiences were related around the
camp-fire. In fact, as the end of the work came in view, they became
commonplace with us. Finally the two outfits were united at the general
hide yard near the home ranch. Coils of small rope were brought from
headquarters, and a detail of men remained in camp, baling the flint
hides, while the remainder scoured the immediate country. A crude press
was arranged, and by the aid of a long lever the hides were compressed
into convenient space for handling by the freighters.
When we had nearly finished the killing and baling, an unlooked-for
incident occurred. While Deweese was working down near Shepherd’s
Ferry, report of our work circulated around the country, and his camp
had been frequently visited by cattlemen. Having nothing to conceal, he
had showed his list of outside brands killed, which was perfectly
satisfactory in most instances. As was customary in selling cattle, we
expected to make report of every outside hide taken, and settle for
them, deducting the necessary expense. But in every community there are
those who oppose prevailing customs, and some who can always see
sinister motives. One forenoon, when the baling was nearly finished, a
delegation of men, representing brands of the Frio and San Miguel, rode
up to our hide yard. They were all well-known cowmen, and Uncle Lance,
being present, saluted them in his usual hearty manner. In response to
an inquiry—“what he thought he was doing”—Uncle Lance jocularly
replied:—
“Well, you see, you fellows allow your old bulls to drift down on my
range, expecting Las Palomas to pension them the remainder of their
days. But that’s where you get fooled. Ten cents a pound for flint
hides beats letting these old stagers die of old age. And this being an
idle season with nothing much to do, we wanted to have a little fun.
And we’ve had it. But laying all jokes aside, fellows, it’s a good idea
to get rid of these old varmints. Hereafter, I’m going to make a
killing off every two or three years. The boys have kept a list of all
stray brands killed, and you can look them over and see how many of
yours we got. We have baled all the stray hides separate, so they can
be looked over. But it’s nearly noon, and you’d better all ride up to
the ranch for dinner—they feed better up there than we do in camp.”
Rather than make a three-mile ride to the house, the visitors took
dinner with the wagon, and about one o’clock Deweese and a vaquero came
in, dragging a hide between them. June cordially greeted the callers,
including Henry Annear, who represented the Las Norias ranch, though I
suppose it was well known to every one present that there was no love
lost between them. Uncle Lance asked our foreman for his list of
outside brands, explaining that these men wished to look them over.
Everything seemed perfectly satisfactory to all parties concerned, and
after remaining in camp over an hour, Deweese and the vaquero saddled
fresh horses and rode away. The visitors seemed in no hurry to go, so
Uncle Lance sat around camp entertaining them, while the rest of us
proceeded with our work of baling. Before leaving, however, the entire
party in company of our employer took a stroll about the hide yard,
which was some distance from camp. During this tour of inspection,
Annear asked which were the bales of outside hides taken in Deweese’s
division, claiming he represented a number of brands outside of Las
Norias. The bales were pointed out and some dozen unbaled hides looked
over. On a count the baled and unbaled hides were found to tally
exactly with the list submitted. But unfortunately Annear took occasion
to insinuate that the list of brands rendered had been “doctored.”
Uncle Lance paid little attention, though he heard, but the other
visitors remonstrated with Annear. This only seemed to make him more
contentious. Finally matters came to an open rupture when Annear
demanded that the cordage be cut on certain bales to allow him to
inspect them. Possibly he was within his rights, but on the Nueces
during the seventies, to question a man’s word was equivalent to
calling him a liar; and _liar_ was a fighting word all over the cattle
range.
“Well, Henry,” said Uncle Lance, rather firmly, “if you are not
satisfied, I suppose I’ll have to open the bales for you, but before I
do, I’m going to send after June. Neither you nor any one else can cast
any reflections on a man in my employ. No unjust act can be charged in
my presence against an absent man. The vaqueros tell me that my foreman
is only around the bend of the river, and I’m going to ask all you
gentlemen to remain until I can send for him.”
John Cotton was dispatched after Deweese. Conversation meanwhile became
polite and changed to other subjects. Those of us at work baling hides
went ahead as if nothing unusual was on the tapis. The visitors were
all armed, which was nothing unusual, for the wearing of six-shooters
was as common as the wearing of boots. During the interim, several
level-headed visitors took Henry Annear to one side, evidently to
reason with him and urge an apology, for they could readily see that
Uncle Lance was justly offended. But it seemed that Annear would listen
to no one, and while they were yet conversing among themselves, John
Cotton and our foreman galloped around the bend of the river and rode
up to the yard. No doubt Cotton had explained the situation, but as
they dismounted Uncle Lance stepped between his foreman and Annear,
saying:—
“June, Henry, here, questions the honesty of your list of strays
killed, and insists on our cutting the bales for his inspection.”
Turning to Annear, Uncle Lance inquired, “Do you still insist on
opening the bales?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Deweese stepped to one side of his employer, saying to Annear: “You
offer to cut a bale here to-day, and I’ll cut your heart out. Behind my
back, you questioned my word. Question it to my face, you dirty sneak.”
Annear sprang backward and to one side, drawing a six-shooter in the
movement, while June was equally active. Like a flash, two shots rang
out. Following the reports, Henry turned halfway round, while Deweese
staggered a step backward. Taking advantage of the instant, Uncle Lance
sprang like a panther on to June and bore him to the ground, while the
visitors fell on Annear and disarmed him in a flash. They were dragged
struggling farther apart, and after some semblance of sanity had
returned, we stripped our foreman and found an ugly flesh wound
crossing his side under the armpit, the bullet having been deflected by
a rib. Annear had fared worse, and was spitting blood freely, and the
marks of exit and entrance of the bullet indicated that the point of
one lung had been slightly chipped.
“I suppose this outcome is what you might call the _amende honorable_”
smilingly said George Nathan, one of the visitors, later to Uncle
Lance. “I always knew there was a little bad blood existing between the
boys, but I had no idea that it would flash in the pan so suddenly or
I’d have stayed at home. Shooting always lets me out. But the question
now is, How are we going to get our man home?”
Uncle Lance at once offered them horses and a wagon, in case Annear
would not go into Las Palomas. This he objected to, so a wagon was
fitted up, and, promising to return it the next day, our visitors
departed with the best of feelings, save between the two belligerents.
We sent June into the ranch and a man to Oakville after a surgeon, and
resumed our work in the hide yard as if nothing had happened. Somewhere
I have seen the statement that the climate of California was especially
conducive to the healing of gunshot wounds. The same claim might be
made in behalf of the Nueces valley, for within a month both the
combatants were again in their saddles.
Within a week after this incident, we concluded our work and the hides
were ready for the freighters. We had spent over a month and had taken
fully seven hundred hides, many of which, when dry, would weigh one
hundred pounds, the total having a value of between five and six
thousand dollars. Like their predecessors the buffalo, the remains of
the ladinos were left to enrich the soil; but there was no danger of
the extinction of the species, for at Las Palomas it was the custom to
allow every tenth male calf to grow up a bull.