CHAPTER I

Editorial note: Randy Adams, the author of this book, wrote from

first-hand experience. As a young man he spent 8 years

traildriving cattle from Texas to markets in the 1880's

and 1890's. Project Gutenberg's library contains

several of his other books.

REED ANTHONY, COWMAN

An Autobiography

BY

ANDY ADAMS

1907

[Illustration: THE COWMAN]

TO

CAPTAIN JOHN T. LYTLE

SECRETARY OF

THE TEXAS CATTLE RAISERS' ASSOCIATION

FORT WORTH, TEXAS

CONTENTS

I. IN RETROSPECT

II. MY APPRENTICESHIP

III. A SECOND TRIP TO PORT SUMNER

IV. A FATAL TRIP

V. SUMMER OF '68

VI. SOWING WILD OATS

VII. "THE ANGEL"

VIII. THE "LAZY L"

IX. THE SCHOOL OF EXPERIENCE

X. THE PANIC OF '73

XI. A PROSPEROUS YEAR

XII. CLEAR FORK AND SHENANDOAH

XIII. THE CENTENNIAL YEAR

XIV. ESTABLISHING A NEW RANCH

XV. HARVEST HOME

XVI. AN ACTIVE SUMMER

XVII. FORESHADOWS

XVIII. THE BEGINNING OF THE BOOM

XIX. THE CHEYENNE AND ARAPAHOE CATTLE COMPANY

XX. HOLDING THE FORT

XXI. THE FRUITS OF CONSPIRACY

XXII. IN CONCLUSION

CHAPTER I

IN RETROSPECT

I can truthfully say that my entire life has been spent with cattle.

Even during my four years' service in the Confederate army, the

greater portion was spent with the commissary department, in charge of

its beef supplies. I was wounded early in the second year of the war

and disabled as a soldier, but rather than remain at home I accepted

a menial position under a quartermaster. Those were strenuous times.

During Lee's invasion of Pennsylvania we followed in the wake of the

army with over a thousand cattle, and after Gettysburg we led the

retreat with double that number. Near the close of the war we

frequently had no cattle to hold, and I became little more than a

camp-follower.

I was born in the Shenandoah Valley, northern Virginia, May 3, 1840.

My father was a thrifty planter and stockman, owned a few slaves, and

as early as I can remember fed cattle every winter for the eastern

markets. Grandfather Anthony, who died before I was born, was a

Scotchman who had emigrated to the Old Dominion at an early day,

and acquired several large tracts of land on an affluent of the

Shenandoah. On my paternal side I never knew any of my ancestors, but

have good cause to believe they were adventurers. My mother's maiden

name was Reed; she was of a gentle family, who were able to trace

their forbears beyond the colonial days, even to the gentry of

England. Generations of good birth were reflected in my mother;

and across a rough and eventful life I can distinctly remember the

refinement of her manners, her courtesy to guests, her kindness to

child and slave.

My boyhood days were happy ones. I attended a subscription school

several miles from home, riding back and forth on a pony. The studies

were elementary, and though I never distinguished myself in my

classes, I was always ready to race my pony, and never refused to play

truant when the swimming was good. Evidently my father never intended

any of his boys for a professional career, though it was an earnest

hope of my mother that all of us should receive a college education.

My elder brother and I early developed business instincts, buying

calves and accompanying our father on his trading expeditions. Once

during a vacation, when we were about twelve and ten years old, both

of us crossed the mountains with him into what is now West Virginia,

where he bought about two hundred young steers and drove them back to

our home in the valley. I must have been blessed with an unfailing

memory; over fifty years have passed since that, my first trip from

home, yet I remember it vividly--can recall conversations between my

father and the sellers as they haggled over the cattle. I remember the

money, gold and silver, with which to pay for the steers, was carried

by my father in ordinary saddle-bags thrown across his saddle. As

occasion demanded, frequently the funds were carried by a negro man of

ours, and at night, when among acquaintances, the heavy saddle-bags

were thrown into a corner, every one aware of their contents.

But the great event of my boyhood was a trip to Baltimore. There was

no railroad at the time, and as that was our market for fat cattle,

it was necessary to drive the entire way. My father had made the trip

yearly since I could remember, the distance being nearly two hundred

miles, and generally carrying as many as one hundred and fifty big

beeves. They traveled slowly, pasturing or feeding grain on the way,

in order that the cattle should arrive at the market in salable

condition. One horse was allowed with the herd, and on another my

father rode, far in advance, to engage pasture or feed and shelter for

his men. When on the road a boy always led a gentle ox in the lead of

the beeves; negro men walked on either flank, and the horseman brought

up the rear. I used to envy the boy leading the ox, even though he was

a darky. The negro boys on our plantation always pleaded with "Mars"

John, my father, for the privilege; and when one of them had made the

trip to Baltimore as a toll boy he easily outranked us younger whites.

I must have made application for the position when I was about seven

years old, for it seemed an age before my request was granted. My

brother, only two years older than I, had made the trip twice, and

when I was twelve the great opportunity came. My father had nearly two

hundred cattle to go to market that year, and the start was made one

morning early in June. I can distinctly see my mother standing on the

veranda of our home as I led the herd by with a big red ox, trembling

with fear that at the final moment her permission might be withdrawn

and that I should have to remain behind. But she never interfered with

my father, who took great pains to teach his boys everything practical

in the cattle business.

It took us twenty days to reach Baltimore. We always started early in

the morning, allowing the beeves to graze and rest along the road, and

securing good pastures for them at night. Several times it rained,

making the road soft, but I stripped off my shoes and took it

barefooted through the mud. The lead ox was a fine, big fellow, each

horn tipped with a brass knob, and he and I set the pace, which was

scarcely that of a snail. The days were long, I grew desperately

hungry between meals, and the novelty of leading that ox soon lost its

romance. But I was determined not to show that I was tired or hungry,

and frequently, when my father was with us and offered to take me up

behind him on his horse, I spurned his offer and trudged on till

the end of the day. The mere driving of the beeves would have been

monotonous, but the constant change of scene kept us in good spirits,

and our darkies always crooned old songs when the road passed through

woodlands. After the beeves were marketed we spent a day in the city,

and my father took my brother and me to the theatre. Although the

world was unfolding rather rapidly for a country boy of twelve, it

was with difficulty that I was made to understand that what we had

witnessed on the stage was but mimicry.

The third day after reaching the city we started on our return. The

proceeds from the sale of the cattle were sent home by boat. With only

two horses, each of which carried double, and walking turn about, we

reached home in seven days, settling all bills on the way. That year

was a type of others until I was eighteen, at which age I could guess

within twenty pounds of the weight of any beef on foot, and when I

bought calves and yearling steers I knew just what kind of cattle they

would make at maturity. In the mean time, one summer my father had

gone west as far as the State of Missouri, traveling by boat to

Jefferson City, and thence inland on horseback. Several of our

neighbors had accompanied him, all of them buying land, my father

securing four sections. I had younger brothers growing up, and the

year my oldest brother attained his majority my father outfitted him

with teams, wagons, and two trusty negro men, and we started for the

nearest point on the Ohio River, our destination being the new lands

in the West. We embarked on the first boat, drifting down the Ohio,

and up the other rivers, reaching the Ultima Thule of our hopes within

a month. The land was new; I liked it; we lived on venison and wild

turkeys, and when once we had built a log house and opened a few

fields, we were at peace with the earth.

But this happy existence was of short duration. Rumors of war reached

us in our western elysium, and I turned my face homeward, as did many

another son of Virginia. My brother was sensible enough to remain

behind on the new farm; but with nothing to restrain me I soon found

myself in St. Louis. There I met kindred spirits, eager for the coming

fray, and before attaining my majority I was bearing arms and wearing

the gray of the Confederacy. My regiment saw very little service

during the first year of the war, as it was stationed in the western

division, but early in 1862 it was engaged in numerous actions.

I shall never forget my first glimpse of the Texas cavalry. We had

moved out from Corinth, under cover of darkness, to attack Grant at

Pittsburg Landing. When day broke, orders were given to open out and

allow the cavalry to pass ahead and reconnoitre our front. I had

always felt proud of Virginian horsemanship, but those Texans were in

a class by themselves. Centaur-like they sat their horses, and for our

amusement, while passing at full gallop, swung from their saddles and

picked up hats and handkerchiefs. There was something about the Texans

that fascinated me, and that Sunday morning I resolved, if spared, to

make Texas my future home. I have good cause to remember the battle of

Shiloh, for during the second day I was twice wounded, yet saved from

falling into the enemy's hands.

My recovery was due to youth and a splendid constitution. Within six

weeks I was invalided home, and inside a few months I was assigned to

the commissary department with the army in Virginia. It was while in

the latter service that I made the acquaintance of many Texans, from

whom I learned a great deal about the resources of their State,--its

immense herds of cattle, the cheapness of its lands, and its perpetual

summer. During the last year of the war, on account of their ability

to handle cattle, a number of Texans were detailed to care for the

army's beef supply. From these men I received much information and a

pressing invitation to accompany them home, and after the parole at

Appomattox I took their address, promising to join them in the near

future. On my return to the old homestead I found the place desolate,

with burnt barns and fields laid waste. The Shenandoah Valley had

experienced war in its dread reality, for on every hand were the

charred remains of once splendid homes. I had little hope that the

country would ever recover, but my father, stout-hearted as ever, had

already begun anew, and after helping him that summer and fall I again

drifted west to my brother's farm.

The war had developed a restless, vagabond spirit in me. I had little

heart to work, was unsettled as to my future, and, to add to my other

troubles, after reaching Missouri one of my wounds reopened. In the

mean time my brother had married, and had a fine farm opened up. He

offered me every encouragement and assistance to settle down to

the life of a farmer; but I was impatient, worthless, undergoing a

formative period of early manhood, even spurning the advice of father,

mother, and dearest friends. If to-day, across the lapse of years, the

question were asked what led me from the bondage of my discontent, it

would remain unanswered. Possibly it was the advantage of good birth;

surely the prayers of a mother had always followed me, and my feet

were finally led into the paths of industry. Since that day of

uncertainty, grandsons have sat upon my knee, clamoring for a story

about Indians, the war, or cattle trails. If I were to assign a motive

for thus leaving a tangible record of my life, it would be that my

posterity--not the present generation, absorbed in its greed of gain,

but a more distant and a saner one--should be enabled to glean a faint

idea of one of their forbears. A worthy and secondary motive is to

give an idea of the old West and to preserve from oblivion a rapidly

vanishing type of pioneers.

My personal appearance can be of little interest to coming

generations, but rather what I felt, saw, and accomplished. It was

always a matter of regret to me that I was such a poor shot with a

pistol. The only two exceptions worthy of mention were mere accidents.

In my boyhood's home, in Virginia, my father killed yearly a large

number of hogs for the household needs as well as for supplying our

slave families with bacon. The hogs usually ran in the woods, feeding

and thriving on the mast, but before killing time we always baited

them into the fields and finished their fattening with peas and corn.

It was customary to wait until the beginning of winter, or about the

second cold spell, to butcher, and at the time in question there were

about fifty large hogs to kill. It was a gala event with us boys, the

oldest of whom were allowed to shoot one or more with a rifle. The

hogs had been tolled into a small field for the killing, and towards

the close of the day a number of them, having been wounded and

requiring a second or third shot, became cross. These subsequent shots

were usually delivered from a six-shooter, and in order to have it at

hand in case of a miss I was intrusted with carrying the pistol. There

was one heavy-tusked five-year-old stag among the hogs that year who

refused to present his head for a target, and took refuge in a brier

thicket. He was left until the last, when we all sallied out to make

the final kill. There were two rifles, and had the chance come to my

father, I think he would have killed him easily; but the opportunity

came to a neighbor, who overshot, merely causing a slight wound. The

next instant the stag charged at me from the cover of the thickety

fence corner. Not having sense enough to take to the nearest

protection, I turned and ran like a scared wolf across the field, the

hog following me like a hound. My father risked a running shot, which

missed its target. The darkies were yelling, "Run, chile! Run, Mars'

Reed! Shoot! Shoot!" when it occurred to me that I had a pistol; and

pointing it backward as I ran, I blazed away, killing the big fellow

in his tracks.

The other occasion was years afterward, when I was a trail foreman at

Abilene, Kansas. My herd had arrived at that market in bad condition,

gaunted from almost constant stampedes at night, and I had gone into

camp some distance from town to quiet and recuperate them. That day I

was sending home about half my men, had taken them to the depot with

our wagon, and intended hauling back a load of supplies to my camp.

After seeing the boys off I hastened about my other business, and near

the middle of the afternoon started out of town. The distance to camp

was nearly twenty miles, and with a heavy load, principally salt, I

knew it would be after nightfall when I reached there. About five

miles out of town there was a long, gradual slope to climb, and I had

to give the through team their time in pulling to its summit. Near the

divide was a small box house, the only one on the road if I remember

rightly, and as I was nearing it, four or five dogs ran out and scared

my team. I managed to hold them in the road, but they refused to quiet

down, kicking, rearing, and plunging in spite of their load; and once

as they jerked me forward, I noticed there was a dog or two under the

wagon, nipping at their heels. There was a six-shooter lying on the

seat beside me, and reaching forward I fired it downward over the end

gate of the wagon. By the merest accident I hit a dog, who raised a

cry, and the last I saw of him he was spinning like a top and howling

like a wolf. I quieted the team as soon as possible, and as I looked

back, there was a man and woman pursuing me, the latter in the lead. I

had gumption enough to know that they were the owners of the dog, and

whipped up the horses in the hope of getting away from them. But the

grade and the load were against me, and the next thing I knew, a big,

bony woman, with fire in her eye, was reaching for me. The wagon wheel

warded her off, and I leaned out of her reach to the far side, yet she

kept abreast of me, constantly calling for her husband to hurry up.

I was pouring the whip into the horses, fearful lest she would climb

into the wagon, when the hub of the front wheel struck her on the

knee, knocking her down. I was then nearing the summit of the divide,

and on reaching it, I looked back and saw the big woman giving her

husband the pommeling that was intended for me. She was altogether too

near me yet, and I shook the lines over the horses, firing a few shots

to frighten them, and we tore down the farther slope like a fire

engine.

There are two events in my life that this chronicle will not fully

record. One of them is my courtship and marriage, and the other my

connection with a government contract with the Indian department.

Otherwise my life shall be as an open book, not only for my own

posterity, but that he who runs may read. It has been a matter of

observation with me that a plain man like myself scarcely ever refers

to his love affairs. At my time of life, now nearing my alloted span,

I have little sympathy with the great mass of fiction which exploits

the world-old passion. In no sense of the word am I a well-read man,

yet I am conscious of the fact that during my younger days the love

story interested me; but when compared with the real thing, the

transcript is usually a poor one. My wife and I have now walked up

and down the paths of life for over thirty-five years, and, if memory

serves me right, neither one of us has ever mentioned the idea of

getting a divorce. In youth we shared our crust together; children

soon blessed and brightened our humble home, and to-day, surrounded by

every comfort that riches can bestow, no achievement in life has given

me such great pleasure, I know no music so sweet, as the prattle of my

own grandchildren. Therefore that feature of my life is sacred, and

will not be disclosed in these pages.

I would omit entirely mention of the Indian contract, were it not that

old friends may read this, my biography, and wonder at the omission. I

have no apologies to offer for my connection with the transaction, as

its true nature was concealed from me in the beginning, and a scandal

would have resulted had I betrayed friends. Then again, before general

amnesty was proclaimed I was debarred from bidding on the many

rich government contracts for cattle because I had served in the

Confederate army. Smarting under this injustice at the time the Indian

contract was awarded, I question if I was thoroughly _reconstructed._

Before our disabilities were removed, we ex-Confederates could do all

the work, run all the risk, turn in all the cattle in filling the

outstanding contracts, but the middleman got the profits. The contract

in question was a blanket one, requiring about fifty thousand cows for

delivery at some twenty Indian agencies. The use of my name was all

that was required of me, as I was the only cowman in the entire ring.

My duty was to bid on the contract; the bonds would be furnished by my

partners, of which I must have had a dozen. The proposals called for

sealed bids, in the usual form, to be in the hands of the Department

of the Interior before noon on a certain day, marked so and so, and to

be opened at high noon a week later. The contract was a large one, the

competition was ample. Several other Texas drovers besides myself had

submitted bids; but they stood no show--_I had been furnished the

figures of every competitor._ The ramifications of the ring of which

I was the mere figure-head can be readily imagined. I sublet the

contract to the next lowest bidder, who delivered the cattle, and we

got a rake-off of a clean hundred thousand dollars. Even then there

was little in the transaction for me, as it required too many people

to handle it, and none of them stood behind the door at the final

"divvy." In a single year I have since cleared twenty times what my

interest amounted to in that contract and have done honorably by

my fellowmen. That was my first, last, and only connection with a

transaction that would need deodorizing if one described the details.

But I have seen life, have been witness to its poetry and pathos, have

drunk from the cup of sorrow and rejoiced as a strong man to run a

race. I have danced all night where wealth and beauty mingled, and

again under the stars on a battlefield I have helped carry a stretcher

when the wails of the wounded on every hand were like the despairing

cries of lost souls. I have seen an old demented man walking the

streets of a city, picking up every scrap of paper and scanning it

carefully to see if a certain ship had arrived at port--a ship which

had been lost at sea over forty years before, and aboard of which were

his wife and children. I was once under the necessity of making

a payment of twenty-five thousand dollars in silver at an Indian

village. There were no means of transportation, and I was forced to

carry the specie in on eight pack mules. The distance was nearly two

hundred miles, and as we neared the encampment we were under the

necessity of crossing a shallow river. It was summer-time, and as we

halted the tired mules to loosen the lash ropes, in order to allow

them to drink, a number of Indian children of both sexes, who

were bathing in the river, gathered naked on either embankment in

bewilderment at such strange intruders. In the innocence of these

children of the wild there was no doubt inspiration for a poet; but

our mission was a commercial one, and we relashed the mules and

hurried into the village with the rent money.

I have never kept a diary. One might wonder that the human mind

could contain such a mass of incident and experiences as has been my

portion, yet I can remember the day and date of occurrences of fifty

years ago. The scoldings of my father, the kind words of an indulgent

mother, when not over five years of age, are vivid in my memory as I

write to-day. It may seem presumptuous, but I can give the year and

date of starting, arrival, and delivery of over one hundred herds of

cattle which I drove over the trail as a common hand, foreman,

or owner. Yet the warnings of years--the unsteady step, easily

embarrassed, love of home and dread of leaving it--bid me hasten these

memoirs. Even my old wounds act as a barometer in foretelling the

coming of storms, as well as the change of season, from both of which

I am comfortably sheltered. But as I look into the inquiring eyes of a

circle of grandchildren, all anxious to know my life story, it seems

to sweeten the task, and I am encouraged to go on with the work.