A FATAL TRIP
Before leaving Fort Sumner an agreement had been entered into between
my employers and the contractors for a third herd. The delivery was
set for the first week in September, and twenty-five hundred beeves
were agreed upon, with a liberal leeway above and below that number
in case of accident en route. Accordingly, on our return to Loving's
ranch active preparations were begun for the next drive. Extra horses
were purchased, several new guns of the most modern make were
secured, and the gathering of cattle in Loving's brand began at once,
continuing for six weeks. We combed the hills and valleys along the
main Brazos, and then started west up the Clear Fork, carrying the
beeves with us while gathering. The range was in prime condition, the
cattle were fat and indolent, and with the exception of Indian rumors
there was not a cloud in the sky.
Our last camp was made a few miles above Fort Griffin. Military
protection was not expected, yet our proximity to that post was
considered a security from Indian interference, as at times not over
half the outfit were with the herd. We had nearly completed our
numbers when, one morning early in July, the redskins struck our camp
with the violence of a cyclone. The attack occurred, as usual, about
half an hour before dawn, and, to add to the difficulty of the
situation, the cattle stampeded with the first shot fired. I was on
last guard at the time, and conscious that it was an Indian attack I
unslung a new Sharp's rifle and tore away in the lead of the herd.
With the rumbling of over two thousand running cattle in my ears,
hearing was out of the question, while my sense of sight was rendered
useless by the darkness of the morning hour. Yet I had some very
distinct visions; not from the herd of frenzied beeves, thundering at
my heels, but every shade and shadow in the darkness looked like a
pursuing Comanche. Once I leveled my rifle at a shadow, but hesitated,
when a flash from a six-shooter revealed the object to be one of our
own men. I knew there were four of us with the herd when it stampeded,
but if the rest were as badly bewildered as I was, it was dangerous
even to approach them. But I had a king's horse under me and trusted
my life to him, and he led the run until breaking dawn revealed our
identity to each other.
The presence of two other men with the running herd was then
discovered. We were fully five miles from camp, and giving our
attention to the running cattle we soon turned the lead. The main body
of the herd was strung back for a mile, but we fell on the leaders
right and left, and soon had them headed back for camp. In the mean
time, and with the breaking of day, our trail had been taken up by
both drovers and half a dozen men, who overtook us shortly after
sun-up. A count was made and we had every hoof. A determined fight had
occurred over the remuda and commissary, and three of the Indians'
ponies had been killed, while some thirty arrows had found lodgment
in our wagon. There were no casualties in the cow outfit, and if any
occurred among the redskins, the wounded or killed were carried away
by their comrades before daybreak. All agreed that there were fully
one hundred warriors in the attacking party, and as we slowly drifted
the cattle back to camp doubt was expressed by the drovers whether it
was advisable to drive the herd to its destination in midsummer with
the Comanches out on their old hunting grounds.
A report of the attack was sent into Griffin that morning, and a
company of cavalry took up the Indian trail, followed it until
evening, and returned to the post during the night. Approaching a
government station was generally looked upon as an audacious act
of the redskins, but the contempt of the Comanche and his ally for
citizen and soldier alike was well known on the Texas frontier and
excited little comment. Several years later, in broad daylight, they
raided the town of Weatherford, untied every horse from the hitching
racks, and defiantly rode away with their spoil. But the prevailing
spirits in our camp were not the kind to yield to an inferior race,
and, true to their obligation to the contractors, they pushed forward
preparations to start the herd. Within a week our numbers were
completed, two extra men were secured, and on the morning of July 14,
1867, we trailed out up the Clear Fork with a few over twenty-six
hundred big beeves. It was the same old route to the southwest, there
was a decided lack of enthusiasm over the start, yet never a word of
discouragement escaped the lips of men or employers. I have never been
a superstitious man, have never had a premonition of impending danger,
always rather felt an enthusiasm in my undertakings, yet that morning
when the flag over Fort Griffin faded from our view, I believe there
was not a man in the outfit but realized that our journey would be
disputed by Indians.
Nor had we long to wait. Near the juncture of Elm Creek with the main
Clear Fork we were again attacked at the usual hour in the morning.
The camp was the best available, and yet not a good one for defense,
as the ground was broken by shallow draws and dry washes. There were
about one hundred yards of clear space on three sides of the camp,
while on the exposed side, and thirty yards distant, was a slight
depression of several feet. Fortunately we had a moment's warning, by
several horses snorting and pawing the ground, which caused Goodnight
to quietly awake the men sleeping near him, who in turn were arousing
the others, when a flight of arrows buried themselves in the ground
around us and the war-whoop of the Comanche sounded. Ever cautious,
we had studied the situation on encamping, and had tied our horses,
cavalry fashion, to a heavy rope stretched from the protected side of
the wagon to a high stake driven for the purpose. With the attack the
majority of the men flung themselves into their saddles and started to
the rescue of the remuda, while three others and myself, detailed in
anticipation, ran for the ravine and dropped into it about forty yards
above the wagon. We could easily hear the exultations of the redskins
just below us in the shallow gorge, and an enfilade fire was poured
into them at short range. Two guns were cutting the grass from
underneath the wagon, and, knowing the Indians had crept up the
depression on foot, we began a rapid fire from our carbines and
six-shooters, which created the impression of a dozen rifles on their
flank, and they took to their heels in a headlong rout.
Once the firing ceased, we hailed our men under the wagon and returned
to it. Three men were with the commissary, one of whom was a mere boy,
who was wounded in the head from an arrow during the first moment of
the attack, and was then raving piteously from his sufferings. The
darky cook, who was one of the defenders of the wagon, was consoling
the boy, so with a parting word of encouragement we swung into our
saddles and rode in the direction of dim firing up the creek. The
cattle were out of hearing, but the random shooting directed our
course, and halting several times, we were finally piloted to the
scene of activity. Our hail was met by a shout of welcome, and the
next moment we dashed in among our own and reported the repulse of the
Indians from the wagon. The remuda was dashing about, hither and yon,
a mob of howling savages were circling about, barely within gunshot,
while our men rode cautiously, checking and turning the frenzied
saddle horses, and never missing a chance of judiciously throwing
a little lead. There was no sign of daybreak, and, fearful for the
safety of our commissary, we threw a cordon around the remuda and
started for camp. Although there must have been over one hundred
Indians in the general attack, we were still masters of the situation,
though they followed us until the wagon was reached and the horses
secured in a rope corral. A number of us again sought the protection
of the ravine, and scattering above and below, we got in some telling
shots at short range, when the redskins gave up the struggle and
decamped. As they bore off westward on the main Clear Fork their
hilarious shoutings could be distinctly heard for miles on the
stillness of the morning air.
An inventory of the camp was taken at dawn. The wounded lad received
the first attention. The arrowhead had buried itself below and behind
the ear, but nippers were applied and the steel point was extracted.
The cook washed the wound thoroughly and applied a poultice of meal,
which afforded almost instant relief. While horses were being saddled
to follow the cattle, I cast my eye over the camp and counted over two
hundred arrows within a radius of fifty yards. Two had found lodgment
in the bear-skin on which I slept. Dozens were imbedded in the
running-gear and box of the wagon, while the stationary flashes from
the muzzle of the cook's Creedmoor had concentrated an unusual number
of arrows in and around his citadel. The darky had exercised caution
and corded the six ox-yokes against the front wheel of the wagon in
such a manner as to form a barrier, using the spaces between the
spokes as port-holes. As he never varied his position under the wagon,
the Indians had aimed at his flash, and during the rather brief fight
twenty arrows had buried themselves in that barricade of ox-yokes.
The trail of the beeves was taken at dawn. This made the fifth
stampede of the herd since we started, a very unfortunate thing, for
stampeding easily becomes a mania with range cattle. The steers had
left the bed-ground in an easterly direction, but finding that they
were not pursued, the men had gradually turned them to the right, and
at daybreak the herd was near Elm Creek, where it was checked. We rode
the circle in a free gallop, the prairie being cut into dust and the
trail as easy to follow as a highway. As the herd happened to land on
our course, after the usual count the commissary was sent for, and it
and the remuda were brought up. With the exception of wearing hobbles,
the oxen were always given their freedom at night. This morning one of
them was found in a dying condition from an arrow in his stomach. A
humane shot had relieved the poor beast, and his mate trailed up to
the herd, tied behind the wagon with a rope. There were several odd
oxen among the cattle and the vacancy was easily filled. If I am
lacking in compassion for my red brother, the lack has been heightened
by his fiendish atrocities to dumb animals. I have been witness to
the ruin of several wagon trains captured by Indians, have seen their
ashes and irons, and even charred human remains, and was scarce moved
to pity because of the completeness of the hellish work. Death is
merciful and humane when compared to the hamstringing of oxen, gouging
out their eyes, severing their ears, cutting deep slashes from
shoulder to hip, and leaving the innocent victim to a lingering death.
And when dumb animals are thus mutilated in every conceivable form
of torment, as if for the amusement of the imps of the evil one, my
compassion for poor Lo ceases.
It was impossible to send the wounded boy back to the settlements, so
a comfortable bunk was made for him in the wagon. Late in the evening
we resumed our journey, expecting to drive all night, as it was good
starlight. Fair progress was made, but towards morning a rainstorm
struck us, and the cattle again stampeded. In all my outdoor
experience I never saw such pitchy darkness as accompanied that storm;
although galloping across a prairie in a blustering rainfall, it
required no strain of the imagination to see hills and mountains and
forests on every hand. Fourteen men were with the herd, yet it was
impossible to work in unison, and when day broke we had less than half
the cattle. The lead had been maintained, but in drifting at random
with the storm several contingents of beeves had cut off from the main
body, supposedly from the rear. When the sun rose, men were dispatched
in pairs and trios, the trail of the missing steers was picked up, and
by ten o'clock every hoof was in hand or accounted for. I came in with
the last contingent and found the camp in an uproar over the supposed
desertion of one of the hands. Yankee Bill, a sixteen-year-old boy,
and another man were left in charge of the herd when the rest of us
struck out to hunt the missing cattle. An hour after sunrise the boy
was seen to ride deliberately away from his charge, without cause or
excuse, and had not returned. Desertion was the general supposition.
Had he not been mounted on one of the firm's horses the offense might
have been overlooked. But the delivery of the herd depended on the
saddle stock, and two men were sent on his trail. The rain had
freshened the ground, and after trailing the horse for fifteen miles
the boy was overtaken while following cattle tracks towards the herd.
He had simply fallen asleep in the saddle, and the horse had wandered
away. Yankee Bill had made the trip to Sumner with us the fall before,
and stood well with his employers, so the incident was forgiven and
forgotten.
From Elm Creek to the beginning of the dry drive was one continual
struggle with stampeding cattle or warding off Indians. In spite of
careful handling, the herd became spoiled, and would run from the
howl of a wolf or the snort of a horse. The dark hour before dawn was
usually the crucial period, and until the arid belt was reached all
hands were aroused at two o'clock in the morning. The start was timed
so as to reach the dry drive during the full of the moon, and although
it was a test of endurance for man and beast, there was relief in
the desert waste--from the lurking savage--which recompensed for its
severity. Three sleepless nights were borne without a murmur, and on
our reaching Horsehead Crossing and watering the cattle they were
turned back on the mesa and freed for the time being. The presence of
Indian sign around the ford was the reason for turning loose, but at
the round-up the next morning the experiment proved a costly one, as
three hundred and sixty-three beeves were missing. The cattle were
nervous and feverish through suffering from thirst, and had they been
bedded closely, stampeding would have resulted, the foreman choosing
the least of two alternatives in scattering the herd. That night we
slept the sleep of exhausted men, and the next morning even awaited
the sun on the cattle before throwing them together, giving the Indian
thieves full ten hours the start. The stealing of cattle by the
Comanches was something unusual, and there was just reason for
believing that the present theft was instigated by renegade Mexicans,
allies in the war of '36. Three distinct trails left the range around
the Crossing, all heading south, each accompanied by fully fifty
horsemen. One contingent crossed the Pecos at an Indian trail about
twenty-five miles below Horsehead, another still below, while the
third continued on down the left bank of the river. Yankee Bill and
"Mocho" Wilson, a one-armed man, followed the latter trail, sighting
them late in the evening, but keeping well in the open. When the
Comanches had satisfied themselves that but two men were following
them, small bands of warriors dropped out under cover of the broken
country and attempted to gain the rear of our men. Wilson was an old
plainsman, and once he saw the hopelessness of recovering the cattle,
he and Yankee Bill began a cautious retreat. During the night and when
opposite the ford where the first contingent of beeves crossed, they
were waylaid, while returning, by the wily redskins. The nickering of
a pony warned them of the presence of the enemy, and circling wide,
they avoided an ambush, though pursued by the stealthy Comanches.
Wilson was mounted on a good horse, while Yankee Bill rode a mule, and
so closely were they pursued, that on reaching the first broken ground
Bill turned into a coulee, while Mocho bore off on an angle, firing
his six-shooter to attract the enemy after him. Yankee Bill told
us afterward how he held the muzzle of his mule for an hour on
dismounting, to keep the rascal from bawling after the departing
horse. Wilson reached camp after midnight and reported the
hopelessness of the situation; but morning came, and with it no Yankee
Bill in camp. Half a dozen of us started in search of him, under the
leadership of the one-armed plainsman, and an hour afterward Bill was
met riding leisurely up the river. When rebuked by his comrade for not
coming in under cover of darkness, he retorted, "Hell, man, I wasn't
going to run my mule to death just because there were a few Comanches
in the country!"
In trailing the missing cattle the day previous, I had accompanied Mr.
Loving to the second Indian crossing. The country opposite the ford
was broken and brushy, the trail was five or six hours old, and,
fearing an ambush, the drover refused to follow them farther. With the
return of Yankee Bill safe and sound to camp, all hope of recovering
the beeves was abandoned, and we crossed the Pecos and turned up that
river. An effort was now made to quiet the herd and bring it back to a
normal condition, in order to fit it for delivery. With Indian raids,
frenzy in stampeding, and an unavoidable dry drive, the cattle had
gaunted like rails. But with an abundance of water and by merely
grazing the remainder of the distance, it was believed that the beeves
would recover their old form and be ready for inspection at the end of
the month of August. Indian sign was still plentiful, but in smaller
bands, and with an unceasing vigilance we wormed our way up the Pecos
valley.
When within a day's ride of the post, Mr. Loving took Wilson with him
and started in to Fort Sumner. The heat of August on the herd had made
recovery slow, but if a two weeks' postponement could be agreed on,
it was believed the beeves would qualify. The circumstances were
unavoidable; the government had been lenient before; so, hopeful of
accomplishing his mission, the senior member of the firm set out on
his way. The two men left camp at daybreak, cautioned by Goodnight
to cross the river by a well-known trail, keeping in the open, even
though it was farther, as a matter of safety. They were well mounted
for the trip, and no further concern was given to their welfare until
the second morning, when Loving's horse came into camp, whinnying for
his mates. There were blood-stains on the saddle, and the story of a
man who was cautious for others and careless of himself was easily
understood. Conjecture was rife. The presence of the horse admitted of
several interpretations. An Indian ambush was the most probable, and
a number of men were detailed to ferret out the mystery. We were then
seventy miles below Sumner, and with orders to return to the herd at
night six of us immediately started. The searching party was divided
into squads, one on either side of the Pecos River, but no results
were obtained from the first day's hunt. The herd had moved up fifteen
miles during the day, and the next morning the search was resumed,
the work beginning where it had ceased the evening before. Late that
afternoon and from the east bank, as Goodnight and I were scanning the
opposite side of the river, a lone man, almost naked, emerged from a
cave across the channel and above us. Had it not been for his missing
arm it is doubtful if we should have recognized him, for he seemed
demented. We rode opposite and hailed, when he skulked back into his
refuge; but we were satisfied that it was Wilson. The other searchers
were signaled to, and finding an entrance into the river, we swam it
and rode up to the cave. A shout of welcome greeted us, and the next
instant Wilson staggered out of the cavern, his eyes filled with
tears.
He was in a horrible physical condition, and bewildered. We were an
hour getting his story. They had been ambushed by Indians and ran for
the brakes of the river, but were compelled to abandon their horses,
one of which was captured, the other escaping. Loving was wounded
twice, in the wrist and the side, but from the cover gained they had
stood off the savages until darkness fell. During the night Loving,
unable to walk, believed that he was going to die, and begged Wilson
to make his escape, and if possible return to the herd. After making
his employer as comfortable as possible, Wilson buried his own rifle,
pistols, and knife, and started on his return to the herd. Being
one-armed, he had discarded his boots and nearly all his clothing to
assist him in swimming the river, which he had done any number of
times, traveling by night and hiding during the day. When found in the
cave, his feet were badly swollen, compelling him to travel in the
river-bed to protect them from sandburs and thorns. He was taken up
behind one of the boys on a horse, and we returned to camp.
Wilson firmly believed that Loving was dead, and described the scene
of the fight so clearly that any one familiar with the river would
have no difficulty in locating the exact spot. But the next morning as
we were nearing the place we met an ambulance in the road, the driver
of which reported that Loving had been brought into Sumner by a
freight outfit. On receipt of this information Goodnight hurried on to
the post, while the rest of us looked over the scene, recovered the
buried guns of Wilson, and returned to the herd. Subsequently we
learned that the next morning after Wilson left Loving had crawled to
the river for a drink, and, looking upstream, saw some one a mile
or more distant watering a team. By firing his pistol he attracted
attention to himself and so was rescued, the Indians having decamped
during the night. To his partner, Mr. Loving corroborated Wilson's
story, and rejoiced to know that his comrade had also escaped.
Everything that medical science could do was done by the post surgeons
for the veteran cowman, but after lingering twenty-one days he died.
Wilson and the wounded boy both recovered, the cattle were delivered
in two installments, and early in October we started homeward,
carrying the embalmed remains of the pioneer drover in a light
conveyance. The trip was uneventful, the traveling was done
principally by night, and on the arrival at Loving's frontier home,
six hundred miles from Fort Sumner, his remains were laid at rest with
Masonic honors.
Over thirty years afterward a claim was made against the government
for the cattle lost at Horsehead Crossing. Wilson and I were witnesses
before the commissioner sent to take evidence in the case. The hearing
was held at a federal court, and after it was over, Wilson, while
drinking, accused me of suspecting him of deserting his employer,--a
suspicion I had, in fact, entertained at the time we discovered him
at the cave. I had never breathed it to a living man, yet it was the
truth, slumbering for a generation before finding expression.