BUFFALO NEAR THE BIG BEND
That afternoon we reached Council Grove, on the west bank of Neosho
River. It was then a place of less than a hundred and fifty inhabitants
but an important business point--the outpost of Kansas settlements and
the last town, going westward, until Denver, Colorado, was reached.
Travellers going to the plains usually halted here to lay in any
requisites for their trip that might have been overlooked in starting
from the Missouri River and also for last repairs on wagons and for
horseshoeing.
The tires on our hind wheels had become a little loose, and we decided
to have them shrunk and reset, so we camped by a blacksmith shop near
the centre of the village, and soon had the blacksmith at our work,
which he finished before dark.
Making an early start next morning, we rolled out, nooned at Diamond
Springs, fifteen miles from the Grove, where there was but one family,
and at evening camped at Lost Springs, thirty miles from Council Grove,
where Jack Costillo's ranch was the only habitation. So long as the
road and weather were fine we wished to make up the time lost in being
delayed by the jayhawkers and lengthened our drives accordingly.
We were now fairly launched on the plains and would see little more
timber and no habitations of white men except an occasional trading
ranch at the crossing of some creek along the road. We were nearing the
eastern edge of the buffalo range.
The road from Fort Riley, that we had formerly travelled in going out
to the Arkansas River and back, enters the Santa Fé road here at Lost
Springs. At this camp there was no timber and no running water--merely
a series of water-holes strung along a prairie hollow. This had long
been a well-known camping ground; but where the springs were from which
it takes the name I never knew, for I never saw any.
We pitched our tent near where the Fort Riley road enters the Santa Fé
and after supper attended to the usual camp work. After we had groomed
and fed our animals the Irishman and I strolled up to the ranch to
renew old acquaintance with the proprietor, Jack Costillo, also an
Irishman, whom we had previously known as a soldier in the Mounted
Rifle Regiment in New Mexico.
Costillo was delighted to meet us again and, of course, set out his
best for us. We spent a couple of hours very pleasantly talking over
old times with him and then returned to our camp. As we walked along,
thinking of the Italian name borne by this man, who, as Jack said,
"wore the map of Ireland on his face," I remarked:
"When I hear such names as O'Shaughnessy, Finnegan, or McCarthy given
for an Irishman, they seem natural and Irish enough, but now and then
I find an Irishman with what seems to be a very un-Irish name, such as
Costillo's, for instance. How do you account for these misfit names,
Jack?"
"Oh, that's 'asy," replied Jack. "You see, ould Ireland is a sea-girt
isle an' is visited by ships of various nations, an' now an' then some
foreign sailor, in an Irish port, falls in love with an Irish girl an'
marries her, an' the childther, of course, will bear the foreigner's
name, though they be as Irish as Paddy's pigs."
"Well, that is a reasonable explanation of a question that has
occasioned me a good deal of speculation," I answered, "and, accepting
your solution of the problem, my mind will be much easier in the
future."
At these roadside ranches, which had sprung up at every important
camping place along the road since the Pike's Peak gold discovery,
liquor was sold and a small general assortment kept of such goods as
were in demand by travellers.
No attempt was made to cultivate the soil or raise crops; they were
there merely for the trade of the road and--at points farther out--for
Indian trade. They also bought worn-out stock from passing outfits
and, after resting and recruiting such animals, sold them to other
travellers needing fresh animals.
The Santa Fé mail contractors, Hall & Porter, of Independence,
Missouri, had established stations at certain ranches, but beyond
Council Grove there were, as yet, no regular eating or lodging stations
for passengers in the mail-coaches. They had to carry their own bedding
and take camp fare with the mail hands--two drivers and a conductor to
each coach.
At Cottonwood Creek, the next camp west of Lost Springs, we began to
see buffalo--a few straggling old bulls at some distance from the
road--but as yet no herds. By the time we had reached the Little
Arkansas small bands became more numerous and neighborly; and from
there on the herds grew larger, till by the time we reached the
vicinity of Fort Larned--much later--dense masses of them were to be
seen in every direction.
As far west as Lost Springs we found multitudes of prairie-chickens
along the road and our shotgun kept our mess supplied with fresh meat.
From Lost Springs westward we saw no more prairie-chickens, but as we
soon reached the buffalo range we killed young buffalo or antelope.
In running buffalo we used the black horse, Jack's capture, and
although at first somewhat shy of the brown, woolly monsters, he soon
got used to them and evinced keen interest in the chase.
In killing a buffalo for fresh meat we usually selected a yearling or
two-year-old, to insure tender meat, and cut out only a few pounds of
the choicest parts from the carcass, buffalo being so plenty that we
seldom thought of the wastefulness of this then common practice.
Antelope, the fleetest and most graceful animal on the plains, could
seldom be overhauled by a mounted man, but their inquisitiveness was so
great that they would often, in herds of a dozen or more, approach our
camp through curiosity; and if they did not come close enough to suit
us, by displaying a red blanket we could lure them on, almost close
enough to knock them over with a stick. Their meat is tender and well
flavored, but at certain seasons there is little fat on it and a little
bacon cooked with it improves it.
Coming in from grooming the black horse one day, Jack declared:
"The more I handle that horse the better I like him. He's one of the
best I ever rubbed a brush over. I've been wondering who that jayhawker
could have stole him from an' dreading lest the owner should follow us
up an' claim his property, in which case, of course, we'd have to give
him up."
"Well, Jack," I replied, "it ain't likely that the owner of the horse,
whoever he may be, will ever bother us; and when we hear from the old
storekeeper, back where you got him, if no owner has shown up there to
inquire about him, then your claim is the next best and he'll be your
horse."
"No," said the impulsive Irishman, "ef we're to git to kape him he's to
be company property--he'll belong to all of us."
"Well," put in Tom, "I've been thinkin' that the black horse is
entitled to a name, anyhow. We've named the mules--or Wild Bill
did--'Dink' an' 'Judy' an' the broncos 'Polly' an' 'Vinegar'; now,
what'll we call the horse?"
"Why not call him 'Captain Tucker,' after the jayhawker?" I suggested.
"No," promptly objected Jack, "it wouldn't be treatin' the horse fair
to call him after such a scoundrel."
"How would 'Black Prince' do?" proposed Tom.
"That suits me better. 'Black Prince' it shall be."
Passing successively Cottonwood Creek, Big and Little Turkey Creeks,
Little Arkansas, Jarvis Creek, Big and Little Cow Creeks, we reached
Big Bend, the point where the Santa Fé trail, going westward, first
strikes the Arkansas River.
Before reaching Big Bend we noticed with uneasiness that the tires on
our fore wheels were becoming loose. At Council Grove, where we had
had the tires of the hind wheels shrunk and reset, those of the fore
wheels had seemed tight enough; but since leaving there the woodwork
of the fore wheels had been shrinking more and more each day, until
now something must be done to tighten them or we would soon have a
broken-down wagon. We had hoped to reach Fort Larned before having to
reset these tires, but from Big Bend it was nearly two days' drive to
the fort.
Seeing old Tom examining the wheels, I asked:
"Well, Tom, what are we going to do about it? Hadn't we better take
them fore wheels off and throw them into the river overnight?"
"No," replied the old man, "that would only help us for a day and
by to-morrow night they'd be dry as ever. We'll just give 'em a
plainsman's shrinking, an' that's pretty nigh as good as to have a
blacksmith cut an' weld an' reset 'em. We'll swell the felloes by
puttin' canvas between them an' the tires. The first thing is to unload
the wagon."
It was quite a job, but Jack and I soon had the stuff all out and
stacked up on the ground.
"Now, prop up the front ex an' take off the wheels."
This was soon accomplished.
"Now, while I knock off the tires you an' Jack can get out your gunny
sacks an' carry up a whole lot of buffalo-chips an' pile 'em handy."
By the time we had done this Tom had taken off the tires and laid them
down, one on top of the other, raised a couple of inches off the
ground by stones placed here and there under them.
"Now pile your chips all round over the tires, 'bout a foot deep, an'
then set 'em afire, an' the breeze'll keep the fire a-boomin'; an'
while the tires is a-heating bring the wheels up here close by; get
that piece of old canvas out o' the wagon; cut some strips from it
long as you can git 'em, jist the width of the felloes; get some of
the tacks out of the till of the mess-chest; put the canvas strips
on the outside of the felloes, draw 'em tight, an' tack 'em here an'
there as you go round the wheel until you get about four thicknesses
of canvas on; then give the outside layer of canvas a little wettin'
so's it won't burn out afore we can git the tire cooled off. Then lay
the wheels down handy to the fire, with a rock here an' there under the
rims to make 'em lay solid."
When this had all been done:
"Now get the shovel an' scoop out a little, long hole in the ground
close by an' keep it filled with water. Bring the pick an' shovel an'
spade an' axe an' hatchet an' lay 'em handy. Then fill all the buckets
with water an' set 'em close by."
The wind kept the circle of buffalo-chips that covered the tires
blazing briskly, and by the time the chips were nearly burnt out we
could see that the tires were red-hot and knew that they had expanded
enough to drop over the canvassed wheels.
"Now," resumed Tom, "we'll have to work lively an' make no mislicks
when we drop a tire over a wheel so's to get it cooled an' shrunk on
afore it burns out the canvas. We'll have to use the pick an' spade an'
shovel to lift 'em out o' the fire an' drop 'em over the wheels. Peck,
you take the pick, Jack the shovel, an' I'll take the spade. When all's
ready I'll give the word, an', Peck, you stick the point of your pick
under the top tire an' lift it up a little so's me an' Jack can slip
our shovel an' spade under it; then the three of us'll lift the tire
out of the fire an' lay it in its place over the wheel an' then go to
pourin' water on, an' quick as it's shrunk enough to stay on Jack'll
run his shovel handle through the hole in the hub, pry the wheel up,
an' with one of you on each side, a-holt of the shovel handle, you can
hold the wheel over the pool of water with the lower rim in the water
while I spin it 'round, an', with axe in one hand an' hatchet in the
other, I'll hammer the tire to its place as it shrinks. Now, do you men
'savvy' all them instructions?"
We "savvied," and, following Tom's directions, we soon had both tires
nicely reset and shrunk, and it made a very substantial job. It was hot
and laborious work and gave us unusually keen appetites for the supper
that followed, which Tom prepared, while Jack and I reloaded our wagon.