A TWO YEARS’ DROUTH
The spring of ’78 was an early one, but the drouth continued, and after
the hide hunting was over we rode our range almost night and day.
Thousands of cattle had drifted down from the Frio River country, which
section was suffering from drouth as badly as the Nueces. The new wells
were furnishing a limited supply of water, but we rigged pulleys on the
best of them, and when the wind failed we had recourse to buckets and a
rope worked from the pommel of a saddle. A breeze usually arose about
ten in the morning and fell about midnight. During the lull the buckets
rose and fell incessantly at eight wells, with no lack of suffering
cattle in attendance to consume it as fast as it was hoisted. Many
thirsty animals gorged themselves, and died in sight of the well; weak
ones being frequently trampled to death by the stronger, while flint
hides were corded at every watering point. The river had quit flowing,
and with the first warmth of spring the pools became rancid and
stagnant. In sandy and subirrigated sections, under a March sun, the
grass made a sickly effort to spring; but it lacked substance, and so
far from furnishing food for the cattle, it only weakened them.
This was my first experience with a serious drouth. Uncle Lance,
however, met the emergency as though it were part of the day’s work,
riding continually with the rest of us. During the latter part of
March, Aaron Scales, two vaqueros, and myself came in one night from
the Ganso and announced not over a month’s supply of water in that
creek. We also reported to our employer that during our two days’ ride,
we had skinned some ten cattle, four of which were in our own brand.
“That’s not as bad as it might be,” said the old ranchero,
philosophically. “You see, boys, I’ve been through three drouths since
I began ranching on this river. The second one, in ’51, was the worst;
cattle skulls were as thick along the Nueces that year as sunflowers in
August. In ’66 it was nearly as bad, there being more cattle; but it
didn’t hurt me very much, as mavericking had been good for some time
before and for several years following, and I soon recovered my losses.
The first one lasted three years, and had there been as many cattle as
there are now, half of them would have died. The spring before the
second drouth, I acted as _padrino_ for Tiburcio and his wife, who was
at that time a mere slip of a girl living at the Mission. Before they
had time to get married, the dry spell set in and they put the wedding
off until it should rain. I ridiculed the idea, but they were both
superstitious and stuck it out. And honest, boys, there wasn’t enough
rain fell in two years to wet your shirt. In my forty years on the
Nueces, I’ve seen hard times, but that drouth was the toughest of them
all. Game and birds left the country, and the cattle were too poor to
eat. Whenever our provisions ran low, I sent Tiburcio to the coast with
a load of hides, using six yoke of oxen to handle a cargo of about a
ton. The oxen were so poor that they had to stand twice in one place to
make a shadow, and we wouldn’t take gold for our flint hides but
insisted on the staples of life. At one point on the road, Tiburcio had
to give a quart of flour for watering his team both going and coming.
They say that when the Jews quit a country, it’s time for the gentiles
to leave. But we old timers are just like a horse that chooses a new
range and will stay with it until he starves or dies with old age.”
I could see nothing reassuring in the outlook. Near the wells and along
the river the stock had trampled out the grass until the ground was as
bare as a city street. Miles distant from the water the old dry grass,
with only an occasional green blade, was the only grazing for the
cattle. The black, waxy soil on the first bottom of the river, on which
the mesquite grass had flourished, was as bare now as a ploughed field,
while the ground had cracked open in places to an incredible depth, so
that without exercising caution it was dangerous to ride across. This
was the condition of the range at the approach of April. Our horse
stock, to be sure, fared better, ranging farther and not requiring
anything like the amount of water needed by the cattle. It was nothing
unusual to meet a Las Palomas _manada_ from ten to twelve miles from
the river, and coming in only every second or third night to quench
their thirst. We were fortunate in having an abundance of saddle
horses, which, whether under saddle or not, were always given the
preference in the matter of water. They were the motive power of the
ranch, and during this crisis, though worked hard, must be favored in
every possible manner.
Early that spring the old ranchero sent Deweese to Lagarto in an
attempt to sell Captain Byler a herd of horse stock for the trail. The
mission was a failure, though our _segundo_ offered to sell a thousand,
in the straight Las Palomas brand, at seven dollars a head on a year’s
credit. Even this was no inducement to the trail drover, and on
Deweese’s return my employer tried San Antonio and other points in
Texas in the hope of finding a market. From several places favorable
replies were received, particularly from places north of the Colorado
River; for the drouth was local and was chiefly confined to the
southern portion of the state. There was enough encouragement in the
letters to justify the old ranchero’s attempt to reduce the demand on
the ranch’s water supply, by sending a herd of horse stock north on
sale. Under ordinary conditions, every ranchman preferred to sell his
surplus stock at the ranch, and Las Palomas was no exception, being
generally congested with marketable animals. San Antonio was, however,
beginning to be a local horse and mule market of some moment, and
before my advent several small selected bunches of mares, mules, and
saddle horses had been sent there, and had found a ready and profitable
sale.
But this was an emergency year, and it was decided to send a herd of
stock horses up the country. Accordingly, before April, we worked every
_manada_ which we expected to keep, cutting out all the two-year-old
fillies. To these were added every mongrel-colored band to the number
of twenty odd, and when ready to start the herd numbered a few over
twelve hundred of all ages from yearlings up. A _remuda_ of fifty
saddle horses, broken in the spring of ’76, were allotted to our use,
and our _segundo_, myself, and five Mexican vaqueros were detailed to
drive the herd. We were allowed two pack mules for our commissary,
which was driven with the _remuda_. With instructions to sell and hurry
home, we left our horse camp on the river, and started on the morning
of the last day of March.
Live-stock commission firms in San Antonio were notified of our coming,
and with six men to the herd and the seventh driving the _remuda_, we
put twenty miles behind us the first day. With the exception of water
for saddle stock, which we hoisted from a well, there was no hope of
watering the herd before reaching Mr. Booth’s ranch on the Frio. He had
been husbanding his water supply, and early the second evening we
watered the herd to its contentment from a single shaded pool. From the
Frio we could not follow any road, but were compelled to direct our
course wherever there was a prospect of water. By hobbling the bell
mare of the _remuda_ at evening, and making two watches of the
night-herding, we easily systematized our work. Until we reached the
San Antonio River, about twenty miles below the city, not over two days
passed without water for all the stock, though, on account of the
variations from our course, we were over a week in reaching San
Antonio. Having moved the herd up near some old missions within five or
six miles of the city, with an abundance of water and some grass,
Deweese went into town, visiting the commission firms and looking for a
buyer. Fortunately a firm, which was expecting our arrival, had a
prospective purchaser from Fort Worth for about our number. Making a
date with the firm to show our horses the next morning, our _segundo_
returned to the herd, elated over the prospect of a sale.
On their arrival the next morning, we had the horses already watered
and were grazing them along an abrupt slope between the first and
second bottoms of the river. The salesman understood his business, and
drove the conveyance back and forth on the down hill side, below the
herd, and the rise in the ground made our range stock look as big as
American horses. After looking at the animals for an hour, from a
buckboard, the prospective buyer insisted on looking at the _remuda_.
But as these were gentle, he gave them a more critical examination,
insisting on their being penned in a rope corral at our temporary camp,
and had every horse that was then being ridden unsaddled to inspect
their backs. The _remuda_ was young, gentle, and sound, many of them
submitting to be caught without a rope. The buyer was pleased with
them, and when the price came up for discussion Deweese artfully set a
high figure on the saddle stock, and, to make his bluff good, offered
to reserve them and take them back to the ranch. But Tuttle would not
consider the herd without the _remuda_, and sparring between them
continued until all three returned to town.
It was a day of expectancy to the vaqueros and myself. In examining the
saddle horses, the buyer acted like a cowman; but as regarding the
range stock, it was evident to me that his armor was vulnerable, and if
he got any the best of our _segundo_ he was welcome to it. Deweese
returned shortly after dark, coming directly to the herd where I and
two vaqueros were on guard, to inform us that he had sold lock, stock,
and barrel, including the two pack mules. I felt like shouting over the
good news, when June threw a damper on my enthusiasm by the news that
he had sold for delivery at Fort Worth.
“You see,” said Deweese, by way of explanation, “the buyer is foreman
of a cattle company out on the forks of the Brazos in Young County. He
don’t sabe range horses as well as he does cows, and when we had agreed
on the saddle stock, and there were only two bits between us on the
herd, he offered me six bits a head all round, over and above his
offer, if I would put them in Fort Worth, and I took him up so quick
that I nearly bit my tongue doing it. Captain Redman tells me that it’s
only about three hundred miles, and grass and water is reported good. I
intended to take him up at his offer, anyhow, and seventy-five cents a
head extra will make the old man nearly a thousand dollars, which is
worth picking up. We’ll put them there easy in three weeks, learn the
trail and see the country besides. Uncle Lance can’t have any kick
coming, for I offered them to Captain Byler for seven dollars, and here
I’m getting ten six-bits—nearly four thousand dollars’ advance, and we
won’t be gone five weeks. Any money down? Well, I should remark! Five
thousand deposited with Smith & Redman, and I was particular to have it
inserted in the contract between us that every saddle horse, mare,
mule, gelding, and filly was to be in the straight ‘horse hoof’ brand.
There is a possibility that when Tuttle sees them again at Fort Worth,
they won’t look as large as they did on that hillside this morning.”
We made an early start from San Antonio the next morning, passing to
the westward of the then straggling city. The vaqueros were disturbed
over the journey, for Fort Worth was as foreign to them as a European
seaport, but I jollied them into believing it was but a little
_pasear_. Though I had never ridden on a train myself, I pictured to
them the luxuriant ease with which we would return, as well as the trip
by stage to Oakville. I threw enough enthusiasm into my description of
the good time we were going to have, coupled with their confidence in
Deweese, to convince them in spite of their forebodings. Our _segundo_
humored them in various ways, and after a week on the trail, water
getting plentiful, using two guards, we only herded until midnight,
turning the herd loose from then until daybreak. It usually took us
less than an hour to gather and count them in the morning, and
encouraged by their contentment, a few days later, we loose-herded
until darkness and then turned them free. From then on it was a picnic
as far as work was concerned, and our saddle horses and herd improved
every day.
After crossing the Colorado River, at every available chance en route
we mailed a letter to the buyer, notifying him of our progress as we
swept northward. When within a day’s drive of the Brazos, we mailed our
last letter, giving notice that we would deliver within three days of
date. On reaching that river, we found it swimming for between thirty
and forty yards; but by tying up the pack mules and cutting the herd
into four bunches, we swam the Brazos with less than an hour’s delay.
Overhauling and transferring the packs to horses, throwing away
everything but the barest necessities, we crossed the lightened
commissary, the freed mules swimming with the _remuda_. On the morning
of the twentieth day out from San Antonio, our _segundo_ rode into the
fort ahead of the herd. We followed at our regular gait, and near the
middle of the forenoon were met by Deweese and Tuttle, who piloted us
to a pasture west of the city, where an outfit was encamped to receive
the herd. They numbered fifteen men, and looked at our insignificant
crowd with contempt; but the count which followed showed we had not
lost a hoof since we left the Nueces, although for the last ten nights
the stock had had the fullest freedom.
The receiving outfit looked the brands over carefully. The splendid
grass and water of the past two weeks had transformed the famishing
herd of a month before, and they were received without a question.
Rounding in our _remuda_ for fresh mounts before starting to town, the
vaqueros and I did some fancy roping in catching out the horses,
partially from sheer lightness of heart because we were at our
journey’s end, and partially to show this north Texas outfit that we
were like the proverbial singed cat—better than we looked. Two of
Turtle’s men rode into town with us that evening to lead back our
mounts, the outfit having come in purposely to receive the horse herd
and drive it to their ranch in Young County. While riding in, they
thawed nicely towards us, but kept me busy interpreting for them with
our Mexicans. Tuttle and Deweese rode together in the lead, and on
nearing town one of the strangers bantered Pasquale to sell him a nice
maguey rope which the vaquero carried. When I interpreted the other’s
wish to him, Pasquale loosened the lasso and made a present of it to
Tuttle’s man. I had almost as good a rope of the same material, which I
presented to the other lad with us, and the drinks we afterward
consumed over this slight testimony of the amicable relations existing
between a northern and southern Texas outfit over the delivery and
receiving of a horse herd, showed no evidence of a drouth. The
following morning I made inquiry for Frank Nancrede and the drovers who
had driven a trail herd of cattle from Las Palomas two seasons before.
They were all well known about the fort, but were absent at the time,
having put up two trail herds that spring in Uvalde County. Deweese did
not waste an hour more than was necessary in that town, and while
waiting for the banks to open, arranged for our transportation to San
Antonio. We were all ready to start back before noon. Fort Worth was a
frontier town at the time, bustling and alert with live-stock
interests; but we were anxious to get home, and promptly boarded a
train for the south. After entering the train, our _segundo_ gave each
of the vaqueros and myself some spending money, the greater portion of
which went to the “butcher” for fruits. He was an enterprising fellow
and took a marked interest in our comfort and welfare. But on nearing
San Antonio after midnight, he attempted to sell us our choice of three
books, between the leaves of one of which he had placed a five-dollar
bill and in another a ten, and offered us our choice for two dollars,
and June Deweese became suddenly interested. Coming over to where we
were sitting, he knocked the books on the floor, kicked them under a
seat, and threatened to bend a gun over the butcher’s head unless he
made himself very scarce. Then reminding us that “there were tricks in
all trades but ours,” he kept an eye over us until we reached the city.
We were delayed another day in San Antonio, settling with the
commission firm and banking the money. The next morning we took stage
for Oakville, where we arrived late at night. When a short distance out
of San Antonio I inquired of our driver who would relieve him beyond
Pleasanton, and was gratified to hear that his name was not Jack
Martin. Not that I had anything particular against Martin, but I had no
love for his wife, and had no desire to press the acquaintance any
further with her or her husband. On reaching Oakville, we were within
forty miles of Las Palomas. We had our saddles with us, and early the
next morning tried to hire horses; but as the stage company domineered
the village we were unable to hire saddle stock, and on appealing to
the only livery in town we were informed that Bethel & Oxenford had the
first claim on their conveyances. Accordingly Deweese and I visited the
offices of the stage company, where, to our surprise, we came face to
face with Jack Oxenford. I do not think he knew us, though we both knew
him at a glance. Deweese made known his wants, but only asked for a
conveyance as far as Shepherd’s. Yankeelike, Oxenford had to know who
we were, where we had been, and where we were going. Our _segundo_ gave
him rather a short answer, but finally admitted that we belonged at Las
Palomas. Then the junior member of the mail contractors became
arrogant, claiming that the only conveyance capable of carrying our
party was being held for a sheriff with some witnesses. On second
thought he offered to send us to the ferry by two lighter vehicles in
consideration of five dollars apiece, insolently remarking that we
could either pay it or walk. I will not repeat Deweese’s reply, which I
silently endorsed.
With the soil of the Nueces valley once more under our feet we felt
independent. On returning to the vaqueros, we found a stranger among
them, Bernabe Cruze by name, who was a _muy amigo_ of Santiago Ortez,
one of our Mexicans. He belonged at the Mission, and when he learned of
our predicament offered to lend us his horse, as he expected to be in
town a few days. The offer was gratefully accepted, and within a
quarter of an hour Manuel Flores had started for Shepherd’s with an
order to the merchant to send in seven horses for us. It was less than
a two hours’ ride to the ferry, and with the early start we expected
Manuel to return before noon. Making ourselves at home in a coffeehouse
conducted by a Mexican, Deweese ordered a few bottles of wine to
celebrate properly our drive and to entertain Cruze and our vaqueros.
Before the horses arrived, those of us who had any money left spent it
in the _cantina_, not wishing to carry it home, where it would be
useless. The result was that on the return of Flores with mounts we
were all about three sheets in the wind, reckless and defiant.
After saddling up, I suggested to June that we ride by the stage office
and show Mr. Oxenford that we were independent of him. The stage stand
and office were on the outskirts of the scattered village, and while we
could have avoided it, our _segundo_ willingly led the way, and called
for the junior member of the firm. A hostler came to the door and
informed us that Mr. Oxenford was not in.
“Then I’ll just leave my card,” said Deweese, dismounting. Taking a
brown cigarette paper from his pocket, he wrote his name on it; then
pulling a tack from a notice pasted beside the office door, he drew his
six-shooter, and with it deftly tacked the cigarette paper against the
office door jamb. Remounting his horse, and perfectly conscious that
Oxenford was within hearing, he remarked to the hostler: “When your
boss returns, please tell him that those fellows from Las Palomas will
neither walk with him nor ride with him. We thought he might fret as to
how we were to get home, and we have just ridden by to tell him that he
need feel no uneasiness. Since I have never had the pleasure of an
introduction to him, I’ve put my name on that cigarette paper.
Good-day, sir.”
Arriving at Shepherd’s, we rested several hours, and on the suggestion
of the merchant changed horses before starting home. At the ferry we
learned that there had been no serious loss of cattle so far, but that
nearly all the stock from the Frio and San Miguel had drifted across to
the Nueces. We also learned that the attendance on San Jacinto Day had
been extremely light, not a person from Las Palomas being present,
while the tournament for that year had been abandoned. During our ride
up the river before darkness fell, we passed a strange medley of
brands, many of which Deweese assured me were owned from fifty to a
hundred miles to the north and west. Riding leisurely, it was nearly
midnight when we sighted the ranch and found it astir. An extra breeze
had been blowing, and the vaqueros were starting to their work at the
wells in order to be on hand the moment the wind slackened. Around the
two wells at headquarters were over a thousand cattle, whose constant
moaning reached our ears over a mile from the ranch.
Our return was like entering a house of mourning. Miss Jean barely
greeted Deweese and myself, while Uncle Lance paced the gallery without
making a single inquiry as to what had become of the horse herd. On the
mistress’s orders, servants set out a cold luncheon, and disappeared,
as if in the presence of death, without a word of greeting. Ever
thoughtful, Miss Jean added several little delicacies to our plain
meal, and, seating herself at the table with us, gave us a clear
outline of the situation. In seventy odd miles of the meanderings of
the river across our range, there was not a pool to the mile with water
enough for a hundred cattle. The wells were gradually becoming weaker,
yielding less water every week, while of four new ones which were
commenced before our departure, two were dry and worthless. The
vaqueros were then skinning on an average forty dead cattle a day,
fully a half of which were in the Las Palomas brand. Sympathetically as
a sister could, she accounted for her brother’s lack of interest in our
return by his anxiety and years, and she cautioned us to let no evil
report reach his ears, as this drouth had unnerved him.
Deweese at once resumed his position on the ranch, and the next morning
the ranchero held a short council with him, authorizing him to spare no
expense to save the cattle. Deweese returned the borrowed horses by
Enrique, and sent a letter to the merchant at the ferry, directing him
to secure and send at least twenty men to Las Palomas. The first day
after our return, we rode the mills and the river. Convinced that to
sink other wells on the mesas would be fruitless, the foreman decided
to dig a number of shallow ones in the bed of the river, in the hope of
catching seepage water. Accordingly the next morning, I was sent with a
commissary wagon and seven men to the mouth of the Ganso, with
instructions to begin sinking wells about two miles apart. Taking with
us such tools as we needed, we commenced our first well at the
confluence of the Ganso with the Nueces, and a second one above. From
timber along the river we cut the necessary temporary curbing, and put
it in place as the wells were sunk. On the third day both wells became
so wet as to impede our work, and on our foreman riding by, he ordered
them curbed to the bottom and a tripod set up over them on which to rig
a rope and pulley. The next morning troughs and rigging, with a
_remuda_ of horses and a watering crew of four strange vaqueros,
arrived. The wells were only about twenty feet deep; but by drawing the
water as fast as the seepage accumulated, each was capable of watering
several hundred head of cattle daily. By this time Deweese had secured
ample help, and started a second crew of well diggers opposite the
ranch, who worked down the river while my crew followed some fifteen
miles above. By the end of the month of May, we had some twenty
temporary wells in operation, and these, in addition to what water the
pools afforded, relieved the situation to some extent, though the
ravages of death by thirst went on apace among the weaker cattle.
With the beginning of June, we were operating nearly thirty wells. In
some cases two vaqueros could hoist all the water that accumulated in
three wells. We had a string of camps along the river, and at every
windmill on the mesas men were stationed night and day. Among the
cattle, the death rate was increasing all over the range. Frequently we
took over a hundred skins in a single day, while at every camp cords of
fallen flint hides were accumulating. The heat of summer was upon us,
the wind arose daily, sand storms and dust clouds swept across the
country, until our once prosperous range looked like a desert, withered
and accursed. Young cows forsook their offspring in the hour of their
birth. Motherless calves wandered about the range, hollow-eyed, their
piteous appeals unheeded, until some lurking wolf sucked their blood
and spread a feast to the vultures, constantly wheeling in great
flights overhead. The prickly pear, an extremely arid plant, affording
both food and drink to herds during drouths, had turned white,
blistered by the torrid sun until it had fallen down, lifeless. The
chaparral was destitute of foliage, and on the divides and higher
mesas, had died. The native women stripped their _jacals_ of every
sacred picture, and hung them on the withered trees about their doors,
where they hourly prayed to their patron saints. In the humblest homes
on Las Palomas, candles burned both night and day to appease the
frowning Deity.
The white element on the ranch worked almost unceasingly, stirring the
Mexicans to the greatest effort. The middle of June passed without a
drop of rain, but on the morning of the twentieth, after working all
night, as Pasquale Arispe and I were drawing water from a well on the
border of the encinal I felt a breeze spring up, that started the
windmill. Casting my eyes upward, I noticed that the wind had veered to
a quarter directly opposite to that of the customary coast breeze. Not
being able to read aright the portent of the change in the wind, I had
to learn from that native-born son of the soil: “Tomas,” he cried,
riding up excitedly, “in three days it will rain! Listen to me:
Pasquale Arispe says that in three days the _arroyos_ on the hacienda
of Don Lancelot will run like a mill-race. See, _companero_, the wind
has changed. The breeze is from the northwest this morning. Before
three days it will rain! Madre de Dios!”
The wind from the northwest continued steadily for two days, relieving
us from work. On the morning of the third day the signs in sky and air
were plain for falling weather. Cattle, tottering with weakness, came
into the well, and after drinking, playfully kicked up their heels on
leaving. Before noon the storm struck us like a cloud-burst. Pasquale
and I took refuge under the wagon to avoid the hailstones. In spite of
the parched ground drinking to its contentment, water flooded under the
wagon, driving us out. But we laughed at the violence of the deluge,
and after making everything secure, saddled our horses and set out for
home, taking our relay mounts with us. It was fifteen miles to the
ranch and in the eye of the storm; but the loose horses faced the rain
as if they enjoyed it, while those under saddle followed the free ones
as a hound does a scent. Within two hours after leaving the well, we
reined in at the gate, and I saw Uncle Lance and a number of the boys
promenading the gallery. But the old ranchero leisurely walked down the
pathway to the gate, and amid the downpour shouted to us: “Turn those
horses loose; this ranch is going to take a month’s holiday.”