THE PANIC OF '73
I have never forgotten those encouraging words of my first employer.
Friends tided my finances over, and letters passed between my banker
friend and myself, resulting in an appointment to meet him at Fort
Worth early in February. There was no direct railroad at the time, the
route being by St. Louis and Texarkana, with a long trip by stage to
the meeting point. No definite agreement existed between us; he was
simply paying me a visit, with the view of looking into the cattle
trade then existing between our respective States. There was no
obligation whatever, yet I had hopes of interesting him sufficiently
to join issues with me in driving a herd of cattle. I wish I could
describe the actual feelings of a man who has had money and lost
it. Never in my life did such opportunities present themselves for
investment as were tendered to me that winter. No less than half a
dozen brands of cattle were offered to me at the former terms of half
cash and the balance to suit my own convenience. But I lacked the
means to even provision a wagon for a month's work, and I was
compelled to turn my back on all bargains, many of which were
duplicates of my former successes. I was humbled to the very dust; I
bowed my neck to the heel of circumstances, and looked forward to the
coming of my casual acquaintance.
I have read a few essays on the relation of money to a community. None
of our family were ever given to theorizing, yet I know how it feels
to be moneyless, my experience with Texas fever affording me a
post-graduate course. Born with a restless energy, I have lived in the
pit of despair for the want of money, and again, with the use of it,
have bent a legislature to my will and wish. All of which is foreign
to my tale, and I hasten on. During the first week in February I drove
in to Fort Worth to await the arrival of my friend, Calvin Hunter,
banker and stockman of Council Grove, Kansas. Several letters were
awaiting me in the town, notifying me of his progress, and in due time
he arrived and was welcomed. The next morning we started, driving a
good span of mules to a buckboard, expecting to cover the distance to
the Brazos in two days. There were several ranches at which we could
touch, en route, but we loitered along, making wide detours in order
to drive through cattle, not a feature of the country escaping the
attention of my quiet little companion. The soil, the native grasses,
the natural waters, the general topography of the country, rich in
its primal beauty, furnished a panorama to the eye both pleasing and
exhilarating. But the main interest centred in the cattle, thousands
of which were always in sight, lingering along the watercourses or
grazing at random.
We reached the Edwards ranch early the second evening. In the two
days' travel, possibly twenty thousand cattle came under our immediate
observation. All the country was an open range, brands intermingling,
all ages and conditions, running from a sullen bull to seven-year-old
beeves, or from a yearling heifer to the grandmother of younger
generations. My anxiety to show the country and its cattle met a
hearty second in Mr. Hunter, and abandoning the buckboard, we took
horses and rode up the Brazos River as far as old Fort Belknap. All
cattle were wintering strong. Turning south, we struck the Clear Fork
above my range and spent a night at the ranch, where my men had built
a second cabin, connecting the two by a hallway. After riding through
my stock for two days, we turned back for the Brazos. My ranch hands
had branded thirty-one hundred calves the fall before, and while
riding over the range I was delighted to see so many young steers in
my different brands. But our jaunt had only whetted the appetite of
my guest to see more of the country, and without any waste of time we
started south with the buckboard, going as far as Comanche County.
Every day's travel brought us in contact with cattle for sale; the
prices were an incentive, but we turned east and came back up the
valley of the Brazos. I offered to continue our sightseeing, but
my guest pleaded for a few days' time until he could hear from his
banking associates. I needed a partner and needed one badly, and
was determined to interest Mr. Hunter if it took a whole month. And
thereby hangs a tale.
The native Texan is not distinguished for energy or ambition. His
success in cattle is largely due to the fact that nearly all the work
can be done on horseback. Yet in that particular field he stands at
the head of his class; for whether in Montana or his own sunny Texas,
when it comes to handling cattle, from reading brands to cutting a
trainload of beeves, he is without a peer. During the palmy days of
the Cherokee Strip, a Texan invited Captain Stone, a Kansas City man,
to visit his ranch in Tom Green County and put up a herd of steers to
be driven to Stone's beef ranch in the Cherokee Outlet. The invitation
was accepted, and on the arrival of the Kansas City man at the Texan's
ranch, host and guest indulged in a friendly visit of several days'
duration. It was the northern cowman's first visit to the Lone Star
State, and he naturally felt impatient to see the cattle which he
expected to buy. But the host made no movement to show the stock
until patience ceased to be a virtue, when Captain Stone moved an
adjournment of the social session and politely asked to be shown a
sample of the country's cattle. The two cowmen were fast friends, and
no offense was intended or taken; but the host assured his guest
there was no hurry, offering to get up horses and show the stock
the following day. Captain Stone yielded, and the next morning they
started, but within a few miles met a neighbor, when all three
dismounted in the shade of a tree. Commonplace chat of the country
occupied the attention of the two Texans until hunger or some
other warning caused one of them to look at his watch, when it was
discovered to be three o'clock in the afternoon. It was then too late
in the day to make an extensive ride, and the ranchman invited his
neighbor and guest to return to the ranch for the night. Another day
was wasted in entertaining the neighbor, the northern cowman, in the
meantime, impatient and walking on nettles until a second start was
made to see the cattle. It was a foggy morning, and they started on
a different route from that previously taken, the visiting ranchman
going along. Unnoticed, a pack of hounds followed the trio of
horsemen, and before the fog lifted a cougar trail was struck and the
dogs opened in a brilliant chorus. The two Texans put spurs to their
horses in following the pack, the cattle buyer of necessity joining
in, the chase leading into some hills, from which they returned after
darkness, having never seen a cow during the day. One trivial incident
after another interfered with seeing the cattle for ten days, when the
guest took his host aside and kindly told him that he must be shown
the cattle or he would go home.
"You're not in a hurry, are you, captain?" innocently asked the Texan.
"All right, then; no trouble to show the cattle. Yes, they run right
around home here within twenty-five miles of the ranch. Show you a
sample of the stock within an hour's ride. You can just bet that old
Tom Green County has got the steers! Sugar, if I'd a-known that you
was in a hurry, I could have shown you the cattle the next morning
after you come. Captain, you ought to know me well enough by this time
to speak your little piece without any prelude. You Yankees are so
restless and impatient that I seriously doubt if you get all the
comfort and enjoyment out of life that's coming to you. Make haste,
some of you boys, and bring in a remuda; Captain Stone and I are going
to ride over on the Middle Fork this morning. Make haste, now; we're
in a hurry."
In due time I suppose I drifted into the languorous ways of the Texan;
but on the occasion of Mr. Hunter's first visit I was in the need of a
moneyed partner, and accordingly danced attendance. Once communication
was opened with his Northern associates, we made several short rides
into adjoining counties, never being gone over two or three days.
When we had looked at cattle to his satisfaction, he surprised me
by offering to put fifty thousand dollars into young steers for the
Kansas trade. I never fainted in my life, but his proposition stunned
me for an instant, or until I could get my bearings. The upshot of
the proposal was that we entered into an agreement whereby I was to
purchase and handle the cattle, and he was to make himself useful
in selling and placing the stock in his State. A silent partner was
furnishing an equal portion of the means, and I was to have a third
of the net profits. Within a week after this agreement was perfected,
things were moving. I had the horses and wagons, men were plentiful,
and two outfits were engaged. Early in March a contract was let in
Parker County for thirty-one hundred two-year-old steers, and another
in Young for fourteen hundred threes, the latter to be delivered at my
ranch. George Edwards was to have the younger cattle, and he and Mr.
Hunter received the same, after which the latter hurried west, fully
ninety miles, to settle for those bought for delivery on the Clear
Fork. In the mean time my ranch outfit had gathered all our steer
cattle two years old and over, having nearly twenty-five hundred head
under herd on my arrival to receive the three-year-olds. This amount
would make an unwieldy herd, and I culled back all short-aged twos and
thin steers until my individual contingent numbered even two thousand.
The contracted steers came in on time, fully up to the specifications,
and my herd was ready to start on the appointed day.
Every dollar of the fifty thousand was invested in cattle, save enough
to provision the wagons en route. My ranch outfit, with the exception
of two men and ten horses, was pressed into trail work as a matter of
economy, for I was determined to make some money for my partners. Both
herds were to meet and cross at Red River Station. The season was
favorable, and everything augured for a prosperous summer. At the
very last moment a cloud arose between Mr. Hunter and me, but happily
passed without a storm. The night before the second herd started, he
and I sat up until a late hour, arranging our affairs, as it was not
his intention to accompany the herds overland. After all business
matters were settled, lounging around a camp-fire, we grew
reminiscent, when the fact developed that my quiet little partner had
served in the Union army, and with the rank of major. I always enjoy a
joke, even on myself, but I flashed hot and cold on this confession.
What! Reed Anthony forming a partnership with a Yankee major? It
seemed as though I had. Fortunately I controlled myself, and under the
excuse of starting the herd at daybreak, I excused myself and sought
my blankets. But not to sleep. On the one hand, in the stillness
of the night and across the years, came the accusing voices of old
comrades. My very wounds seemed to reopen and curse me. Did my
sufferings after Pittsburg Landing mean nothing? A vision of my dear
old mother in Virginia, welcoming me, the only one of her three sons
who returned from the war, arraigned me sorely. And yet, on the other
hand, this man was my guest. On my invitation he had eaten my salt.
For mutual benefit we had entered into a partnership, and I expected
to profit from the investment of his money. More important, he had not
deceived me nor concealed anything; neither did he know that I had
served in the Confederate army. The man was honest. I was anxious to
do right. Soldiers are generous to a foe. While he lay asleep in my
camp, I reviewed the situation carefully, and judged him blameless.
The next morning, and ever afterward, I addressed him by his military
title. Nearly a year passed before Major Hunter knew that he and his
Texas partner had served in the civil war under different flags.
My partner returned to the Edwards ranch and was sent in to Fort
Worth, where he took stage and train for home. The straight
two-year-old herd needed road-branding, as they were accepted in a
score or more brands, which delayed them in starting. Major Hunter
expected to sell to farmers, to whom brands were offensive, and was
therefore opposed to more branding than was absolutely necessary. In
order to overcome this objection, I tally-marked all outside cattle
which went into my herd by sawing from each steer about two inches
from the right horn. As fast as the cattle were received this work was
easily done in a chute, while in case of any loss by stampede the
mark would last for years. The grass was well forward when both herds
started, but on arriving at Red River no less than half a dozen herds
were waterbound, one of which was George Edwards's. A delay of three
days occurred, during which two other herds arrived, when the river
fell, permitting us to cross. I took the lead thereafter, the second
herd half a day to the rear, with the almost weekly incident of being
waterbound by intervening rivers. But as we moved northward the floods
seemed lighter, and on our arrival at Wichita the weather settled into
well-ordered summer.
I secured my camp of the year before. Major Hunter came down by train,
and within a week after our arrival my outfit was settled with and
sent home. It was customary to allow a man half wages returning, my
partner approving and paying the men, also taking charge of all the
expense accounts. Everything was kept as straight as a bank, and with
one outfit holding both herds separate, expenses were reduced to a
minimum. Major Hunter was back and forth, between his home town and
Wichita, and on nearly every occasion brought along buyers, effecting
sales at extra good prices. Cattle paper was considered gilt-edge
security among financial men, and we sold to worthy parties a great
many cattle on credit, the home bank with which my partners were
associated taking the notes at their face. Matters rocked along, we
sold when we had an opportunity, and early in August the remnant of
each herd was thrown together and half the remaining outfit sent home.
A drive of fully half a million cattle had reached Kansas that
year, the greater portion of which had centred at Wichita. We were
persistent in selling, and, having strong local connections, had
sold out all our cattle long before the financial panic of '73 even
started. There was a profitable business, however, in buying herds and
selling again in small quantities to farmers and stockmen. My partners
were anxious to have me remain to the end of the season, doing the
buying, maintaining the camp, and holding any stock on hand. In
rummaging through the old musty account-books, I find that we handled
nearly seven thousand head besides our own drive, fifteen hundred
being the most we ever had on hand at any one time.
My active partner proved a shrewd man in business, and in spite of
the past our friendship broadened and strengthened. Weeks before the
financial crash reached us he knew of its coming, and our house was
set in order. When the panic struck the West we did not own a hoof of
cattle, while the horses on hand were mine and not for sale; and the
firm of Hunter, Anthony & Co. rode the gale like a seaworthy ship. The
panic reached Wichita with over half the drive of that year unsold.
The local banks began calling in money advanced to drovers, buyers
deserted the market, and prices went down with a crash. Shipments of
the best through cattle failed to realize more than sufficient to pay
commission charges and freight. Ruin stared in the face every Texan
drover whose cattle were unsold. Only a few herds were under contract
for fall delivery to Indian and army contractors. We had run from the
approaching storm in the nick of time, even settling with and sending
my outfit home before the financial cyclone reached the prairies
of Kansas. My last trade before the panic struck was an individual
account, my innate weakness for an abundance of saddle horses
asserting itself in buying ninety head and sending them home with my
men.
I now began to see the advantages of shrewd and far-seeing business
associates. When the crash came, scarce a dozen drovers had sold out,
while of those holding cattle at Wichita nearly every one had locally
borrowed money or owed at home for their herds. When the banks,
panic-stricken themselves, began calling in short-time loans, their
frenzy paralyzed the market, many cattle being sacrificed at forced
sale and with scarce a buyer. In the depreciation of values from the
prices which prevailed in the early summer, the losses to the Texas
drovers, caused by the panic, would amount to several million dollars.
I came out of the general wreck and ruin untouched, though personally
claiming no credit, as that must be given my partners. The year
before, when every other drover went home prosperous and happy, I
returned "broke," while now the situation was reversed.
I spent a week at Council Grove, visiting with my business associates.
After a settlement of the year's business, I was anxious to return
home, having agreed to drive cattle the next year on the same terms
and conditions. My partners gave me a cash settlement, and outside
of my individual cattle, I cleared over ten thousand dollars on my
summer's work. Major Hunter, however, had an idea of reëntering the
market,--with the first symptom of improvement in the financial
horizon in the East,--and I was detained. The proposition of buying
a herd of cattle and wintering them on the range had been fully
discussed between us, and prices were certainly an incentive to make
the venture. In an ordinary open winter, stock subsisted on the range
all over western Kansas, especially when a dry fall had matured and
cured the buffalo-grass like hay. The range was all one could wish,
and Major Hunter and I accordingly dropped down to Wichita to look the
situation over. We arrived in the midst of the panic and found matters
in a deplorable condition. Drovers besought and even begged us to make
an offer on their herds, while the prevailing prices of a month before
had declined over half. Major Hunter and I agreed that at present
figures, even if half the cattle were lost by a severe winter, there
would still be money in the venture. Through financial connections
East my partners knew of the first signs of improvement in the
money-centres of the country. As I recall the circumstances, the panic
began in the East about the middle of September, and it was the latter
part of October before confidence was restored, or there was any
noticeable change for the better in the monetary situation. But when
this came, it found us busy buying saddle horses and cattle. The great
bulk of the unsold stock consisted of cows, heifers, and young steers
unfit for beef. My partners contended that a three-year-old steer
ought to winter anywhere a buffalo could, provided he had the flesh
and strength to withstand the rigors of the climate. I had no
opinions, except what other cowmen had told me, but was willing to
take the chances where there was a reasonable hope of success.
The first move was to buy an outfit of good horses. This was done by
selecting from half a dozen remudas, a trail wagon was picked up, and
a complement of men secured. Once it was known that we were in the
market for cattle, competition was brisk, the sellers bidding against
each other and fixing the prices at which we accepted the stock. None
but three-year-old steers were taken, and in a single day we closed
trades on five thousand head. I received the cattle, confining my
selections to five road and ten single-ranch brands, as it was not our
intention to rebrand so late in the season. There was nothing to do
but cut, count, and accept, and on the evening of the third day the
herd was all ready to start for its winter range. The wagon had been
well provisioned, and we started southwest, expecting to go into
winter quarters on the first good range encountered. I had taken a
third interest in the herd, paying one sixth of its purchase price,
the balance being carried for me by my partners. Major Hunter
accompanied us, the herd being altogether too large and unwieldy
to handle well, but we grazed it forward with a front a mile wide.
Delightful fall weather favored the cattle, and on the tenth day we
reached the Medicine River, where, by the unwritten law of squatter's
rights, we preëmpted ten miles of its virgin valley. The country was
fairly carpeted with well-cured buffalo-grass; on the north and west
was a range of sand-dunes, while on the south the country was broken
by deep coulees, affording splendid shelter in case of blizzards or
wintry storms.
A dugout was built on either end of the range. Major Hunter took the
wagon and team and went to the nearest settlement, returning with
a load of corn, having contracted for the delivery of five hundred
bushels more. Meanwhile I was busy locating the cattle, scattering
them sparsely over the surrounding country, cutting them into bunches
of not more than ten to twenty head. Corrals and cosy shelters were
built for a few horses, comfortable quarters for the men, and we
settled down for the winter with everything snug and secure. By the
first of December the force was reduced to four men at each camp, all
of whom were experienced in holding cattle in the winter. Lines giving
ample room to our cattle were established, which were to be ridden
both evening and morning in any and all weather. Two Texans, both
experts as trailers, were detailed to trail down any cattle which left
the boundaries of the range. The weather continued fine, and with the
camps well provisioned, the major and I returned to the railroad and
took train for Council Grove. I was impatient to go home, and took the
most direct route then available. Railroads were just beginning to
enter the West, and one had recently been completed across the eastern
portion of the Indian Territory, its destination being south of Red
River. With nothing but the clothes on my back and a saddle, I
started home, and within twenty-four hours arrived at Denison, Texas.
Connecting stages carried me to Fort Worth, where I bought a saddle
horse, and the next evening I was playing with the babies at the home
ranch. It had been an active summer with me, but success had amply
rewarded my labors, while every cloud had disappeared and the future
was rich in promise.