MY APPRENTICESHIP
During the winter of 1865-66 I corresponded with several of my old
comrades in Texas. Beyond a welcome which could not be questioned,
little encouragement was, with one exception, offered me among my old
friends. It was a period of uncertainty throughout the South, yet
a cheerful word reached me from an old soldier crony living some
distance west of Fort Worth on the Brazos River. I had great
confidence in my former comrade, and he held out a hope, assuring me
that if I would come, in case nothing else offered, we could take his
ox teams the next winter and bring in a cargo of buffalo robes. The
plains to the westward of Fort Griffin, he wrote, were swarming with
buffalo, and wages could be made in killing them for their hides. This
caught my fancy and I was impatient to start at once; but the healing
of my reopened wound was slow, and it was March before I started. My
brother gave me a good horse and saddle, twenty-five dollars in gold,
and I started through a country unknown to me personally. Southern
Missouri had been in sympathy with the Confederacy, and whatever I
needed while traveling through that section was mine for the asking.
I avoided the Indian Territory until I reached Fort Smith, where I
rested several days with an old comrade, who gave me instructions and
routed me across the reservation of the Choctaw Indians, and I reached
Paris, Texas, without mishap.
I remember the feeling that I experienced while being ferried across
Red River. That watercourse was the northern boundary of Texas, and
while crossing it I realized that I was leaving home and friends and
entering a country the very name of which to the outside world was a
synonym for crime and outlawry. Yet some of as good men as ever it was
my pleasure to know came from that State, and undaunted I held a true
course for my destination. I was disappointed on seeing Fort Worth, a
straggling village on the Trinity River, and, merely halting to feed
my mount, passed on. I had a splendid horse and averaged thirty to
forty miles a day when traveling, and early in April reached the home
of my friend in Paolo Pinto County. The primitive valley of the Brazos
was enchanting, and the hospitality of the Edwards ranch was typical
of my own Virginia. George Edwards, my crony, was a year my junior, a
native of the State, his parents having moved west from Mississippi
the year after Texas won her independence from Mexico. The elder
Edwards had moved to his present home some fifteen years previous,
carrying with him a stock of horses and cattle, which had increased
until in 1866 he was regarded as one of the substantial ranchmen in
the Brazos valley. The ranch house was a stanch one, built at a
time when defense was to be considered as well as comfort, and was
surrounded by fine cornfields. The only drawback I could see there was
that there was no market for anything, nor was there any money in the
country. The consumption of such a ranch made no impression on the
increase of its herds, which grew to maturity with no demand for the
surplus.
I soon became impatient to do something. George Edwards had likewise
lost four years in the army, and was as restless as myself. He knew
the country, but the only employment in sight for us was as teamsters
with outfits, freighting government supplies to Fort Griffin. I should
have jumped at the chance of driving oxen, for I was anxious to stay
in the country, and suggested to George that we ride up to Griffin.
But the family interposed, assuring us that there was no occasion for
engaging in such menial work, and we folded our arms obediently, or
rode the range under the pretense of looking after the cattle. I might
as well admit right here that my anxiety to get away from the Edwards
ranch was fostered by the presence of several sisters of my former
comrade. Miss Gertrude was only four years my junior, a very dangerous
age, and in spite of all resolutions to the contrary, I felt myself
constantly slipping. Nothing but my poverty and the hopelessness of it
kept me from falling desperately in love.
But a temporary relief came during the latter part of May. Reports
came down the river that a firm of drovers were putting up a herd of
cattle for delivery at Fort Sumner, New Mexico. Their headquarters
were at Belknap, a long day's ride above, on the Brazos; and
immediately, on receipt of the news, George and I saddled, and
started up the river. The elder Edwards was very anxious to sell his
beef-cattle and a surplus of cow-horses, and we were commissioned to
offer them to the drovers at prevailing prices. On arriving at Belknap
we met the pioneer drover of Texas, Oliver Loving, of the firm of
Loving & Goodnight, but were disappointed to learn that the offerings
in making up the herd were treble the drover's requirements; neither
was there any chance to sell horses. But an application for work met
with more favor. Mr. Loving warned us of the nature of the country,
the dangers to be encountered, all of which we waived, and were
accordingly employed at forty dollars a month in gold. The herd was to
start early in June. George Edwards returned home to report, but I was
immediately put to work, as the junior member of the firm was then out
receiving cattle. They had established a camp, and at the time of our
employment were gathering beef steers in Loving's brand and holding
the herd as it arrived, so that I was initiated into my duties at
once.
I was allowed to retain my horse, provided he did his share of the
work. A mule and three range horses were also allotted to me, and I
was cautioned about their care. There were a number of saddle mules in
the remuda, and Mr. Loving explained that the route was through a
dry country, and that experience had taught him that a mule could
withstand thirst longer than a horse. I was a new man in the country,
and absorbed every word and idea as a sponge does water. With the
exception of roping, I made a hand from the start. The outfit treated
me courteously, there was no concealment of my past occupation, and I
soon had the friendship of every man in the camp. It was some little
time before I met the junior partner, Charlie Goodnight, a strapping
young fellow of about thirty, who had served all through the war in
the frontier battalion of Texas Rangers. The Comanche Indians had been
a constant menace on the western frontier of the State, and during the
rebellion had allied themselves with the Federal side, and harassed
the settlements along the border. It required a regiment of mounted
men to patrol the frontier from Red River to the coast, as the
Comanches claimed the whole western half of the State as their hunting
grounds.
Early in June the herd began to assume its required numbers. George
Edwards returned, and we naturally became bunkies, sharing our
blankets and having the same guard on night-herd. The drovers
encouraged all the men employed to bring along their firearms, and
when we were ready to start the camp looked like an arsenal. I had a
six-shooter, and my bunkie brought me a needle-gun from the ranch, so
that I felt armed for any emergency. Each of the men had a rifle
of some make or other, while a few of them had as many as four
pistols,--two in their belts and two in saddle holsters. It looked to
me as if this was to be a military expedition, and I began to wonder
if I had not had enough war the past few years, but kept quiet. The
start was made June 10, 1866, from the Brazos River, in what is now
Young County, the herd numbering twenty-two hundred big beeves. A
chuck-wagon, heavily loaded with supplies and drawn by six yoke of
fine oxen, a remuda of eighty-five saddle horses and mules, together
with seventeen men, constituted the outfit. Fort Sumner lay to the
northwest, and I was mildly surprised when the herd bore off to the
southwest. This was explained by young Goodnight, who was in charge
of the herd, saying that the only route then open or known was on our
present course to the Pecos River, and thence up that stream to our
destination.
Indian sign was noticed a few days after starting. Goodnight and
Loving both read it as easily as if it had been print,--the abandoned
camps, the course of arrival and departure, the number of horses,
indicating who and what they were, war or hunting parties--everything
apparently simple and plain as an alphabet to these plainsmen. Around
the camp-fire at night the chronicle of the Comanche tribe for the
last thirty years was reviewed, and their overbearing and defiant
attitude towards the people of Texas was discussed, not for my
benefit, as it was common history. Then for the first time I learned
that the Comanches had once mounted ten thousand warriors, had
frequently raided the country to the coast, carrying off horses
and white children, even dictating their own terms of peace to the
republic of Texas. At the last council, called for the purpose of
negotiating for the return of captive white children in possession of
the Comanches, the assembly had witnessed a dramatic termination. The
same indignity had been offered before, and borne by the whites, too
weak to resist the numbers of the Comanche tribe. In this latter
instance, one of the war chiefs, in spurning the remuneration offered
for the return of a certain white girl, haughtily walked into the
centre of the council, where an insult could be seen by all. His act,
a disgusting one, was anticipated, as it was not the first time it had
been witnessed, when one of the Texans present drew a six-shooter and
killed the chief in the act. The hatchet of the Comanche was instantly
dug up, and had not been buried at the time we were crossing a country
claimed by him as his hunting ground.
Yet these drovers seemed to have no fear of an inferior race. We held
our course without a halt, scarcely a day passing without seeing more
or less fresh sign of Indians. After crossing the South Fork of the
Brazos, we were attacked one morning just at dawn, the favorite hour
of the Indian for a surprise. Four men were on herd with the cattle
and one near by with the remuda, our night horses all securely tied to
the wagon wheels. A feint attack was made on the commissary, but
under the leadership of Goodnight a majority of us scrambled into our
saddles and rode to the rescue of the remuda, the chief objective
of the surprise. Two of the boys from the herd had joined the horse
wrangler, and on our arrival all three were wickedly throwing lead at
the circling Indians. The remuda was running at the time, and as we
cut through between it and the savages we gave them the benefit of our
rifles and six-shooter in passing. The shots turned the saddle stock
back towards our camp and the mounted braves continued on their
course, not willing to try issues with us, although they outnumbered
us three to one. A few arrows had imbedded themselves in the ground
around camp at the first assault, but once our rifles were able to
distinguish an object clearly, the Indians kept well out of reach. The
cattle made a few surges, but once the remuda was safe, there was
an abundance of help in holding them, and they quieted down before
sunrise. The Comanches had no use for cattle, except to kill and
torture them, as they preferred the flesh of the buffalo, and once
our saddle stock and the contents of the wagon were denied them, they
faded into the dips of the plain.
The journey was resumed without the delay of an hour. Our first brush
with the noble red man served a good purpose, as we were doubly
vigilant thereafter whenever there was cause to expect an attack.
There was an abundance of water, as we followed up the South Fork and
its tributaries, passing through Buffalo Gap, which was afterward a
well-known landmark on the Texas and Montana cattle trail. Passing
over the divide between the waters of the Brazos and Concho, we struck
the old Butterfield stage route, running by way of Fort Concho to
El Paso, Texas, on the Rio Grande. This stage road was the original
Staked Plain, surveyed and located by General John Pope in 1846. The
route was originally marked by stakes, until it became a thoroughfare,
from which the whole of northwest Texas afterward took its name. There
was a ninety-six mile dry drive between the headwaters of the Concho
and Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos, and before attempting it we
rested a few days. Here Indians made a second attack on us, and
although as futile as the first, one of the horse wranglers received
an arrow in the shoulder. In attempting to remove it the shaft
separated from the steel arrowhead, leaving the latter imbedded in the
lad's shoulder. We were then one hundred and twelve miles distant from
Fort Concho, the nearest point where medical relief might be expected.
The drovers were alarmed for the man's welfare; it was impossible to
hold the herd longer, so the young fellow volunteered to make the ride
alone. He was given the best horse in the remuda, and with the falling
of darkness started for Fort Concho. I had the pleasure of meeting him
afterward, as happy as he was hale and hearty.
The start across the arid stretch was made at noon. Every hoof had
been thoroughly watered in advance, and with the heat of summer on us
it promised to be an ordeal to man and beast. But Loving had driven it
before, and knew fully what was before him as we trailed out under a
noonday sun. An evening halt was made for refreshing the inner man,
and as soon as darkness settled over us the herd was again started.
We were conscious of the presence of Indians, and deceived them
by leaving our camp-fire burning, but holding our effects closely
together throughout the night, the remuda even mixing with the cattle.
When day broke we were fully thirty miles from our noon camp of the
day before, yet with the exception of an hour's rest there was never a
halt. A second day and night were spent in forging ahead, though it
is doubtful if we averaged much over a mile an hour during that time.
About fifteen miles out from the Pecos we were due to enter a cañon
known as Castle Mountain Gap, some three or four miles long, the exit
of which was in sight of the river. We were anxious to reach the
entrance of this cañon before darkness on the third day, as we could
then cut the cattle into bunches, the cliffs on either side forming a
lane. Our horses were as good as worthless during the third day, but
the saddle mules seemed to stand grief nobly, and by dint of ceaseless
effort we reached the cañon and turned the cattle loose into it. This
was the turning-point in the dry drive. That night two men took half
the remuda and went through to Horsehead Crossing, returning with them
early the next morning, and we once more had fresh mounts. The herd
had been nursed through the cañon during the night, and although it
was still twelve miles to the river, I have always believed that those
beeves knew that water was at hand. They walked along briskly; instead
of the constant moaning, their heads were erect, bawling loud and
deep. The oxen drawing the wagon held their chains taut, and the
commissary moved forward as if drawn by a fresh team. There was no
attempt to hold the herd compactly, and within an hour after starting
on our last lap the herd was strung out three miles. The rear was
finally abandoned, and when half the distance was covered, the drag
cattle to the number of fully five hundred turned out of the trail
and struck direct for the river. They had scented the water over five
miles, and as far as control was concerned the herd was as good as
abandoned, except that the water would hold them.
Horsehead Crossing was named by General Pope. There is a difference of
opinion as to the origin of the name, some contending that it was due
to the meanderings of the river, forming a horse's head, and others
that the surveying party was surprised by Indians and lost their
stock. None of us had slept for three nights, and the feeling of
relief on reaching the Pecos, shared alike by man and beast, is
indescribable. Unless one has endured such a trial, only a faint idea
of its hardships can be fully imagined--the long hours of patient
travel at a snail's pace, enveloped by clouds of dust by day, and at
night watching every shadow for a lurking savage. I have since slept
many a time in the saddle, but in crossing that arid belt the one
consuming desire to reach the water ahead benumbed every sense save
watchfulness.
All the cattle reached the river before the middle of the afternoon,
covering a front of five or six miles. The banks of the Pecos were
abrupt, there being fully one hundred and twenty-five feet of deep
water in the channel at the stage crossing. Entrance to the ford
consisted of a wagon-way, cut through the banks, and the cattle
crowded into the river above and below, there being but one exit
on either side. Some miles above, the beeves had found several
passageways down to the water, but in drifting up and down stream
they missed these entrances on returning. A rally was made late that
afternoon to rout the cattle out of the river-bed, one half the outfit
going above, the remainder working around Horsehead, where the bulk of
the herd had watered. I had gone upstream with Goodnight, but before
we reached the upper end of the cattle fresh Indian sign was noticed.
There was enough broken country along the river to shelter the
redskins, but we kept in the open and cautiously examined every brake
within gunshot of an entrance to the river. We succeeded in getting
all the animals out of the water before dark, with the exception of
one bunch, where the exit would require the use of a mattock before
the cattle could climb it, and a few head that had bogged in the
quicksand below Horsehead Crossing. There was little danger of a rise
in the river, the loose contingent had a dry sand-bar on which to
rest, and as the Indians had no use for them there was little danger
of their being molested before morning.
We fell back about a mile from the river and camped for the night.
Although we were all dead for sleep, extra caution was taken to
prevent a surprise, either Goodnight or Loving remaining on guard over
the outfit, seeing that the men kept awake on herd and that the guards
changed promptly. Charlie Goodnight owned a horse that he contended
could scent an Indian five hundred yards, and I have never questioned
the statement. He had used him in the Ranger service. The horse by
various means would show his uneasiness in the immediate presence of
Indians, and once the following summer we moved camp at midnight on
account of the warnings of that same horse. We had only a remuda with
us at the time, but another outfit encamped with us refused to go, and
they lost half their horses from an Indian surprise the next morning
and never recovered them. I remember the ridicule which was expressed
at our moving camp on the warnings of a horse. "Injun-bit,"
"Man-afraid-of-his-horses," were some of the terms applied to us,--yet
the practical plainsman knew enough to take warning from his dumb
beast. Fear, no doubt, gives horses an unusual sense of smell, and I
have known them to detect the presence of a bear, on a favorable wind,
at an incredible distance.
The night passed quietly, and early the next morning we rode to
recover the remainder of the cattle. An effort was also made to rescue
the bogged ones. On approaching the river, we found the beeves still
resting quietly on the sand-bar. But we had approached them at an
angle, for directly over head and across the river was a brake
overgrown with thick brush, a splendid cover in which Indians might be
lurking in the hope of ambushing any one who attempted to drive out
the beeves. Two men were left with a single mattock to cut out and
improve the exit, while the rest of us reconnoitered the thickety
motte across the river. Goodnight was leery of the thicket, and
suggested firing a few shots into it. We all had long-range guns, the
distance from bank to bank was over two hundred yards, and a fusillade
of shots was accordingly poured into the motte. To my surprise we were
rewarded by seeing fully twenty Indians skulk out of the upper end of
the cover. Every man raised his sights and gave them a parting volley,
but a mesquite thicket, in which their horses were secreted, soon
sheltered them and they fell back into the hills on the western side
of the river. With the coast thus cleared, half a dozen of us rode
down into the river-bed and drove out the last contingent of about
three hundred cattle. Goodnight informed us that those Indians had
no doubt been watching us for days, and cautioned us never to give a
Comanche an advantage, advice which I never forgot.
On our return every one of the bogged cattle had been freed except two
heavy beeves. These animals were mired above the ford, in rather deep
water, and it was simply impossible to release them. The drovers were
anxious to cross the river that afternoon, and a final effort was made
to rescue the two steers. The oxen were accordingly yoked, and, with
all the chain available, were driven into the river and fastened on
to the nearest one. Three mounted drivers had charge of the team, and
when the word was given six yoke of cattle bowed their necks and threw
their weight against the yokes; but the quicksand held the steer in
spite of all their efforts. The chain was freed from it, and the oxen
were brought around and made fast again, at an angle and where the
footing was better for the team. Again the word was given, and as
the six yoke swung round, whips and ropes were plied amid a general
shouting, and the team brought out the steer, but with a broken neck.
There were no regrets, and our attention was at once given to the
other steer. The team circled around, every available chain was
brought into use, in order to afford the oxen good footing on a
straight-away pull with the position in which the beef lay bogged.
The word was given for an easy pull, the oxen barely stretched their
chains, and were stopped. Goodnight cautioned the drivers that unless
the pull was straight ahead another neck would be broken. A second
trial was made; the oxen swung and weaved, the chains fairly cried,
the beef's head went under water, but the team was again checked in
time to keep the steer from drowning. After a breathing spell for oxen
and victim, the call was made for a rush. A driver was placed over
every yoke and the word given, and the oxen fell to their knees in the
struggle, whips cracked over their backs, ropes were plied by every
man in charge, and, amid a din of profanity applied to the struggling
cattle, the team fell forward in a general collapse. At first it was
thought the chain had parted, but as the latter came out of the water
it held in its iron grasp the horns and a portion of the skull of the
dying beef. Several of us rode out to the victim, whose brain lay
bare, still throbbing and twitching with life. Rather than allow his
remains to pollute the river, we made a last pull at an angle, and the
dead beef was removed.
We bade Horsehead Crossing farewell that afternoon and camped for the
night above Dagger Bend. Our route now lay to the northwest, or up
the Pecos River. We were then out twenty-one days from Belknap,
and although only half way to our destination, the worst of it was
considered over. There was some travel up and down the Pecos valley,
the route was even then known as the Chisum trail, and afterward
extended as far north as Fort Logan in Colorado and other government
posts in Wyoming. This cattle trace should never be confounded with
the Chisholm trail, first opened by a half-breed named Jesse Chisholm,
which ran from Red River Station on the northern boundary of Texas to
various points in Kansas. In cutting across the bends of the Rio Pecos
we secured water each day for the herd, although we were frequently
under the necessity of sloping down the banks with mattocks to let the
cattle into the river. By this method it often took us three or four
hours to water the herd. Until we neared Fort Sumner precaution never
relaxed against an Indian surprise. Their sign was seen almost daily,
but as there were weaker outfits than ours passing through we escaped
any further molestation.
The methods of handling such a herd were a constant surprise to me, as
well as the schooling of these plainsmen drovers. Goodnight had come
to the plains when a boy of ten, and was a thorough master of their
secrets. On one occasion, about midway between Horsehead Crossing and
our destination, difficulty was encountered in finding an entrance to
the river on account of its abrupt banks. It was late in the day,
and in order to insure a quiet night with the cattle water became an
urgent necessity. Our young foreman rode ahead and found a dry, sandy
creek, its bed fully fifty yards wide, but no water, though the sand
was damp. The herd was held back until sunset, when the cattle were
turned into the creek bed and held as compactly as possible. The heavy
beeves naturally walked back and forth, up and down, the sand just
moist enough to aggravate them after a day's travel under a July sun.
But the tramping soon agitated the sands, and within half an hour
after the herd had entered the dry creek the water arose in pools,
and the cattle drank to their hearts' content. As dew falls at night,
moisture likewise rises in the earth, and with the twilight hour, the
agitation of the sands, and the weight of the cattle, a spring was
produced in the desert waste.
Fort Sumner was a six-company post and the agency of the Apaches and
Navajos. These two tribes numbered over nine thousand people, and our
herd was intended to supply the needs of the military post and these
Indians. The contract was held by Patterson & Roberts, eligible by
virtue of having cast their fortunes with the victor in "the late
unpleasantness," and otherwise fine men. We reached the post on the
20th of July. There was a delay of several days before the cattle were
accepted, but all passed the inspection with the exception of about
one hundred head. These were cattle which had not recuperated from the
dry drive. Some few were footsore or thin in flesh, but taken as a
whole the delivery had every earmark of an honest one. Fortunately
this remnant was sold a few days later to some Colorado men, and
we were foot-loose and free. Even the oxen had gone in on the main
delivery, and harnesses were accordingly bought, a light tongue
fitted to the wagon, and we were ready to start homeward. Mules were
substituted for the oxen, and we averaged forty miles a day returning,
almost itching for an Indian attack, as we had supplied ourselves with
ammunition from the post sutler. The trip had been a financial success
(the government was paying ten cents a pound for beef on foot),
friendly relations had been established with the holders of the award,
and we hastened home to gather and drive another herd.