A SECOND TRIP TO FORT SUMNER
On the return trip we traveled mainly by night. The proceeds from the
sale of the herd were in the wagon, and had this fact been known it
would have been a tempting prize for either bandits or Indians. After
leaving Horsehead Crossing we had the advantage of the dark of the
moon, as it was a well-known fact that the Comanches usually choose
moonlight nights for their marauding expeditions. Another thing in our
favor, both going and returning, was the lightness of travel westward,
it having almost ceased during the civil war, though in '66 it showed
a slight prospect of resumption. Small bands of Indians were still
abroad on horse-stealing forays, but the rich prizes of wagon trains
bound for El Paso or Santa Fé no longer tempted the noble red man
in force. This was favorable wind to our sail, but these plainsmen
drovers predicted that, once traffic westward was resumed, the
Comanche and his ally would be about the first ones to know it. The
redskins were constantly passing back and forth, to and from their
reservation in the Indian Territory, and news travels fast even among
savages.
We reached the Brazos River early in August. As the second start was
not to be made until the latter part of the following month, a general
settlement was made with the men and all reëngaged for the next trip.
I received eighty dollars in gold as my portion, it being the first
money I ever earned as a citizen. The past two months were a splendid
experience for one going through a formative period, and I had
returned feeling that I was once more a man among men. All the
uncertainty as to my future had fallen from me, and I began to look
forward to the day when I also might be the owner of lands and cattle.
There was no good reason why I should not, as the range was as free
as it was boundless. There were any quantity of wild cattle in the
country awaiting an owner, and a good mount of horses, a rope, and a
branding iron were all the capital required to start a brand. I knew
the success which my father had made in Virginia before the war
and had seen it repeated on a smaller scale by my elder brother in
Missouri, but here was a country which discounted both of those
in rearing cattle without expense. Under the best reasoning at my
command, I had reached the promised land, and henceforth determined to
cast my fortunes with Texas.
Rather than remain idle around the Loving headquarters for a month,
I returned with George Edwards to his home. Altogether too cordial a
welcome was extended us, but I repaid the hospitality of the ranch by
relating our experiences of trail and Indian surprise. Miss Gertrude
was as charming as ever, but the trip to Sumner and back had cooled
my ardor and I behaved myself as an acceptable guest should. The
time passed rapidly, and on the last day of the month we returned to
Belknap. Active preparations were in progress for the driving of the
second herd, oxen had been secured, and a number of extra fine horses
were already added to the saddle stock. The remuda had enjoyed a good
month's rest and were in strong working flesh, and within a few days
all the boys reported for duty. The senior member of the firm was the
owner of a large number of range cattle, and it was the intention to
round up and gather as many of his beeves as possible for the coming
drive. We should have ample time to do this; by waiting until the
latter part of the month for starting, it was believed that few
Indians would be encountered, as the time was nearing for their annual
buffalo hunt for robes and a supply of winter meat. This was a gala
occasion with the tribes which depended on the bison for food and
clothing; and as the natural hunting grounds of the Comanches and
Kiowas lay south of Red River, the drovers considered that that would
be an opportune time to start. The Indians would no doubt confine
their operations to the first few tiers of counties in Texas, as the
robes and dried meat would tax the carrying capacity of their horses
returning, making it an object to kill their supplies as near their
winter encampment as possible.
Some twenty days were accordingly spent in gathering beeves along the
main Brazos and Clear Fork. Our herd consisted of about a thousand in
the straight ranch brand, and after receiving and road-branding five
hundred outside cattle we were ready to start. Sixteen men constituted
our numbers, the horses were culled down until but five were left to
the man, and with the previous armament the start was made. Never
before or since have I enjoyed such an outing as this was until we
struck the dry drive on approaching the Pecos River. The absence of
the Indians was correctly anticipated, and either their presence
elsewhere, preying on the immense buffalo herds, or the drift of
the seasons, had driven countless numbers of that animal across our
pathway. There were days and days that we were never out of sight of
the feeding myriads of these shaggy brutes, and at night they became
a menace to our sleeping herd. During the day, when the cattle were
strung out in trail formation, we had difficulty in keeping the two
species separated, but we shelled the buffalo right and left and moved
forward. Frequently, when they occupied the country ahead of us,
several men rode forward and scattered them on either hand until a
right of way was effected for the cattle to pass. While they remained
with us we killed our daily meat from their numbers, and several of
the boys secured fine robes. They were very gentle, but when occasion
required could give a horse a good race, bouncing along, lacking grace
in flight.
Our cook was a negro. One day as we were nearing Buffalo Gap, a
number of big bulls, attracted by the covered wagon, approached the
commissary, the canvas sheet of which shone like a white flag. The
wagon was some distance in the rear, and as the buffalo began to
approach it they would scare and circle around, but constantly coming
nearer the object of their curiosity. The darky finally became alarmed
for fear they would gore his oxen, and unearthed an old Creedmoor
rifle which he carried in the wagon. The gun could be heard for miles,
and when the cook opened on the playful denizens of the plain, a
number of us hurried back, supposing it was an Indian attack. When
within a quarter-mile of the wagon and the situation became clear, we
took it more leisurely, but the fusillade never ceased until we rode
up and it dawned on the darky's mind that rescue was at hand. He had
halted his team, and from a secure position in the front end of the
wagon had shot down a dozen buffalo bulls. Pure curiosity and the
blood of their comrades had kept them within easy range of the
murderous Creedmoor; and the frenzied negro, supposing that his team
might be attacked any moment, had mown down a circle of the innocent
animals. We charged and drove away the remainder, after which we
formed a guard of honor in escorting the commissary until its timid
driver overtook the herd.
The last of the buffalo passed out of sight before we reached the
headwaters of the Concho. In crossing the dry drive approaching the
Pecos we were unusually fortunate. As before, we rested in advance of
starting, and on the evening of the second day out several showers
fell, cooling the atmosphere until the night was fairly chilly. The
rainfall continued all the following day in a gentle mist, and with
little or no suffering to man or beast early in the afternoon we
entered the cañon known as Castle Mountain Gap, and the dry drive was
virtually over. Horsehead Crossing was reached early the next morning,
the size of the herd making it possible to hold it compactly, and
thus preventing any scattering along that stream. There had been
no freshets in the river since June, and the sandy sediment had
solidified, making a safe crossing for both herd and wagon. After the
usual rest of a few days, the herd trailed up the Pecos with scarcely
an incident worthy of mention. Early in November we halted some
distance below Fort Sumner, where we were met by Mr. Loving,--who had
gone on to the post in our advance,--with the report that other cattle
had just been accepted, and that there was no prospect of an immediate
delivery. In fact, the outlook was anything but encouraging, unless we
wintered ours and had them ready for the first delivery in the spring.
The herd was accordingly turned back to Bosque Grande on the river,
and we went into permanent quarters. There was a splendid winter range
all along the Pecos, and we loose-herded the beeves or rode lines in
holding them in the different bends of the river, some of which
were natural inclosures. There was scarcely any danger of Indian
molestation during the winter months, and with the exception of a
few severe "northers" which swept down the valley, the cattle did
comparatively well. Tents were secured at the post; corn was purchased
for our saddle mules; and except during storms little or no privation
was experienced during the winter in that southern climate. Wood was
plentiful in the grove in which we were encamped, and a huge fireplace
was built out of clay and sticks in the end of each tent, assuring us
comfort against the elements.
The monotony of existence was frequently broken by the passing of
trading caravans, both up and down the river. There was a fair trade
with the interior of Mexico, as well as in various settlements along
the Rio Grande and towns in northern New Mexico. When other means of
diversion failed we had recourse to Sumner, where a sutler's bar and
gambling games flourished. But the most romantic traveler to arrive or
pass during the winter was Captain Burleson, late of the Confederacy.
As a sportsman the captain was a gem of the first water, carrying with
him, besides a herd of nearly a thousand cattle, three race-horses,
several baskets of fighting chickens, and a pack of hounds. He had
a large Mexican outfit in charge of his cattle, which were in bad
condition on their arrival in March, he having drifted about all
winter, gambling, racing his horses, and fighting his chickens. The
herd represented his winnings. As we had nothing to match, all we
could offer was our hospitality. Captain Burleson went into camp below
us on the river and remained our neighbor until we rounded up and
broke camp in the spring. He had been as far west as El Paso during
the winter, and was then drifting north in the hope of finding a
market for his herd. We indulged in many hunts, and I found him the
true gentleman and sportsman in every sense of the word. As I recall
him now, he was a lovable vagabond, and for years afterward stories
were told around Fort Sumner of his wonderful nerve as a poker player.
Early in April an opportunity occurred for a delivery of cattle to the
post. Ours were the only beeves in sight, those of Captain Burleson
not qualifying, and a round-up was made and the herd tendered for
inspection. Only eight hundred were received, which was quite a
disappointment to the drovers, as at least ninety per cent of the
tender filled every qualification. The motive in receiving the few
soon became apparent, when a stranger appeared and offered to buy the
remaining seven hundred at a ridiculously low figure. But the drovers
had grown suspicious of the contractors and receiving agent, and,
declining the offer, went back and bought the herd of Captain
Burleson. Then, throwing the two contingents together, and boldly
announcing their determination of driving to Colorado, they started
the herd out past Fort Sumner with every field-glass in the post
leveled on us. The military requirements of Sumner, for its own and
Indian use, were well known to the drovers, and a scarcity of beef was
certain to occur at that post before other cattle could be bargained
for and arrive. My employers had evidently figured out the situation
to a nicety, for during the forenoon of the second day out from the
fort we were overtaken by the contractors. Of course they threw on the
government inspector all the blame for the few cattle received, and
offered to buy five or six hundred more out of the herd. But the shoe
was on the other foot now, the drovers acting as independently as the
proverbial hog on ice. The herd never halted, the contractors followed
up, and when we went into camp that evening a trade was closed on one
thousand steers at two dollars a head advance over those which were
received but a few days before. The oxen were even reserved, and after
delivering the beeves at Sumner we continued on northward with the
remnant, nearly all of which were the Burleson cattle.
The latter part of April we arrived at the Colorado line. There we
were halted by the authorities of that territory, under some act of
quarantine against Texas cattle. We went into camp on the nearest
water, expecting to prove that our little herd had wintered at Fort
Sumner, and were therefore immune from quarantine, when buyers arrived
from Trinidad, Colorado. The steers were a mixed lot, running from a
yearling to big, rough four and five year olds, and when Goodnight
returned from Sumner with a certificate, attested to by every officer
of that post, showing that the cattle had wintered north of latitude
34, a trade was closed at once, even the oxen going in at the
phenomenal figures of one hundred and fifty dollars a yoke. We
delivered the herd near Trinidad, going into that town to outfit
before returning. The necessary alterations were made to the wagon,
mules were harnessed in, and we started home in gala spirits. In a
little over thirty days my employers had more than doubled their money
on the Burleson cattle and were naturally jubilant.
The proceeds of the Trinidad sale were carried in the wagon returning,
though we had not as yet collected for the second delivery at Sumner.
The songs of the birds mixed with our own as we traveled homeward, and
the freshness of early summer on the primitive land, as it rolled away
in dips and swells, made the trip a delightful outing. Fort Sumner
was reached within a week, where we halted a day and then started on,
having in the wagon a trifle over fifty thousand dollars in gold and
silver. At Sumner two men made application to accompany us back to
Texas, and as they were well armed and mounted, and numbers were an
advantage, they were made welcome. Our winter camp at Bosque Grande
was passed with but a single glance as we dropped down the Pecos
valley at the rate of forty miles a day. Little or no travel was
encountered en route, nor was there any sign of Indians until the
afternoon of our reaching Horsehead Crossing. While passing Dagger
Bend, four miles above the ford, Goodnight and a number of us boys
were riding several hundred yards in advance of the wagon, telling
stories of old sweethearts. The road made a sudden bend around some
sand-hills, and the advance guard had passed out of sight of the rear,
when a fresh Indian trail was cut; and as we reined in our mounts to
examine the sign, we were fired on. The rifle-shots, followed by a
flight of arrows, passed over us, and we took to shelter like flushed
quail. I was riding a good saddle horse and bolted off on the opposite
side of the road from the shooting; but in the scattering which ensued
a number of mules took down the road. One of the two men picked up at
the post was a German, whose mule stampeded after his mates, and who
received a galling fire from the concealed Indians, the rest of us
turning to the nearest shelter. With the exception of this one man,
all of us circled back through the mesquite brush and reached the
wagon, which had halted. Meanwhile the shooting had attracted the men
behind, who charged through the sand-dunes, flanking the Indians, who
immediately decamped. Security of the remuda and wagon was a first
consideration, and danger of an ambush prevented our men from
following up the redskins. Order was soon restored, when we proceeded,
and shortly met the young German coming back up the road, who merely
remarked on meeting us, "Dem Injuns shot at me."
The Indians had evidently not been expecting us. From where they
turned out and where the attack was made we back-trailed them in
the road for nearly a mile. They had simply heard us coming, and,
supposing that the advance guard was all there was in the party, had
made the attack and were in turn themselves surprised at our numbers.
But the warning was henceforth heeded, and on reaching the crossing
more Indian sign was detected. Several large parties had evidently
crossed the river that morning, and were no doubt at that moment
watching us from the surrounding hills. The cañon of Castle Mountain
Gap was well adapted for an Indian ambush; and as it was only twelve
miles from the ford to its mouth, we halted within a short distance
of the entrance, as if encamping for the night. All the horses under
saddle were picketed fully a quarter mile from the wagon,--easy marks
for poor Lo,--and the remuda was allowed to wander at will, an air of
perfect carelessness prevailing in the camp. From the sign which
we had seen that day, there was little doubt but there were in the
neighborhood of five hundred Indians in the immediate vicinity of
Horsehead Crossing, and we did everything we could to create the
impression that we were tender-feet. But with the falling of darkness
every horse was brought in and we harnessed up and started, leaving
the fire burning to identify our supposed camp. The drovers gave our
darky cook instructions, in case of an attack while passing through
the Gap, never to halt his team, but push ahead for the plain. About
one third of us took the immediate lead of the wagon, the remuda
following closely, and the remainder of the men bringing up the rear.
The moon was on the wane and would not rise until nearly midnight,
and for the first few miles, or until we entered the cañon, there was
scarce a sound to disturb the stillness of the night. The sandy road
even muffled the noise of the wagon and the tramping of horses; but
once we entered that rocky cañon, the rattling of our commissary
seemed to summon every Comanche and his ally to come and rob us. There
was never a halt, the reverberations of our caravan seeming to reëcho
through the Gap, resounding forward and back, until our progress
must have been audible at Horsehead Crossing. But the expected never
happens, and within an hour we reached the summit of the plain, where
the country was open and clear and an attack could have been easily
repelled. Four fresh mules had been harnessed in for the night, and
striking a free gait, we put twenty miles of that arid stretch behind
us before the moon rose. A short halt was made after midnight, for a
change of teams and saddle horses, and then we continued our hurried
travel until near dawn.
Some indistinct objects in our front caused us to halt. It looked like
a caravan, and we hailed it without reply. Several of us dismounted
and crept forward, but the only sign of life was a dull, buzzing sound
which seemed to issue from an outfit of parked wagons. The report was
laid before the two drovers, who advised that we await the dawn,
which was then breaking, as it was possible that the caravan had been
captured and robbed by Indians. A number of us circled around to the
farther side, and as we again approached the wagons in the uncertain
light we hailed again and received in reply a shot, which cut off the
upper lobe of one of the boys' ears. We hugged the ground for some
little time, until the presence of our outfit was discovered by the
lone guardian of the caravan, who welcomed us. He apologized, saying
that on awakening he supposed we were Indians, not having heard our
previous challenge, and fired on us under the impulse of the moment.
He was a well-known trader by the name of "Honey" Allen, and was then
on his way to El Paso, having pulled out on the dry stretch about
twenty-five miles and sent his oxen back to water. His present cargo
consisted of pecans, honey, and a large number of colonies of live
bees, the latter having done the buzzing on our first reconnoitre. At
his destination, so he informed us, the pecans were worth fifty cents
a quart, the honey a dollar a pound, and the bees one hundred dollars
a hive. After repairing the damaged ear, we hurried on, finding
Allen's oxen lying around the water on our arrival. I met him several
years afterward in Denver, Colorado, dressed to kill, barbered, and
highly perfumed. He had just sold eighteen hundred two-year-old steers
and had twenty-five thousand dollars in the bank. "Son, let me tell
you something," said he, as we were taking a drink together; "that
Pecos country was a dangerous region to pick up an honest living in.
I'm going back to God's country,--back where there ain't no Injuns."
Yet Allen died in Texas. There was a charm in the frontier that held
men captive. I always promised myself to return to Virginia to spend
the declining years of my life, but the fulfillment never came. I can
now realize how idle was the expectation, having seen others make the
attempt and fail. I recall the experience of an old cowman, laboring
under a similar delusion, who, after nearly half a century in the
Southwest, concluded to return to the scenes of his boyhood. He had
made a substantial fortune in cattle, and had fought his way through
the vicissitudes of the frontier until success crowned his efforts. A
large family had in the mean time grown up around him, and under
the pretense of giving his children the advantages of an older and
established community he sold his holdings and moved back to his
native borough. Within six months he returned to the straggling
village which he had left on the plains, bringing the family with him.
Shortly afterwards I met him, and anxiously inquired the cause of his
return. "Well, Reed," said he, "I can't make you understand near as
well as though you had tried it yourself. You see I was a stranger in
my native town. The people were all right, I reckon, but I found out
that it was me who had changed. I tried to be sociable with them, but
honest, Reed, I just couldn't stand it in a country where no one ever
asked you to take a drink."
A week was spent in crossing the country between the Concho and Brazos
rivers. Not a day passed but Indian trails were cut, all heading
southward, and on a branch of the Clear Fork we nearly ran afoul of an
encampment of forty teepees and lean-tos, with several hundred horses
in sight. But we never varied our course a fraction, passing within a
quarter mile of their camp, apparently indifferent as to whether they
showed fight or allowed us to pass in peace. Our bluff had the desired
effect; but we made it an object to reach Fort Griffin near midnight
before camping. The Comanche and his ally were great respecters, not
only of their own physical welfare, but of the Henri and Spencer rifle
with which the white man killed the buffalo at the distance of twice
the flight of an arrow. When every advantage was in his favor--ambush
and surprise--Lo was a warrior bold; otherwise he used discretion.