Andy Adams, who was born in Georgia of Scotch-Irish parents, moved to
Texas after the Civil War. He grew up in the cattle country and
naturally drifted into cow-punching as a career. When he was in his
early twenties, he joined a long cattle drive from Texas to Montana
under the leadership of a foreman named Jim Flood. The expedition, which
he describes vividly in _The Log of a Cowboy_, began along the Rio
Grande River in Texas in April, 1882. Six men rode on either side of a
long cow column that stretched out over three quarters of a mile of
crooked trail. The main problem until the herd reached the Colorado
River in central Texas was to find watering places, but as the animals
approached the river, the cowboys learned that rustlers were active in
that area. Their chief worry was that the rustlers would sneak into
their midst at night, stampede the cattle, and then drive off part of
the herd under cover of darkness.
We camped that night some five or six miles back from the river on the
last divide. From the time the second guard went on until the third
was relieved, we took the precaution of keeping a scout outriding from
a half to three quarters of a mile distant from the herd, Flood and
Honeyman serving in that capacity. Every precaution was taken to
prevent a surprise; and in case anything did happen, our night horses
tied to the wagon wheels stood ready and saddled and bridled for any
emergency. But the night passed without incident.
An hour or two after the herd had started the next morning, four
well-mounted, strange men rode up from the westward, and representing
themselves as trail cutters, asked for our foreman. Flood met them, in
his usual quiet manner, and after admitting that we had been troubled
more or less with range cattle, assured our callers that if there was
anything in the herd in the brands they represented, he would gladly
hold it up and give them every opportunity to cut their cattle out. As
he was anxious to cross the river before noon, he invited the visitors
to stay for dinner, assuring them that before starting the herd in the
afternoon, he would throw the cattle together for their inspection.
Flood made himself very agreeable, inquiring into cattle and range
matters in general as well as the stage of water in the river ahead.
The spokesman of the trail cutters met Flood’s invitation to dinner
with excuses about the pressing demands on his time, and urged, if it
did not seriously interfere with our plans, that he be allowed to
inspect the herd before crossing the river. His reasons seemed trivial
and our foreman was not convinced.
“You see, gentlemen,” he said, “in handling these southern cattle, we
must take advantage of occasions. We have timed our morning’s drive so
as to reach the river during the warmest hour of the day, or as near
noon as possible. You can hardly imagine what a difference there is,
in fording this herd, between a cool, cloudy day and a clear, hot one.
You see the herd is strung out nearly a mile in length now, and to
hold them up and waste an hour or more for your inspection would
seriously disturb our plans. And then our wagon and _remuda_ [_spare
horses_] have gone on with orders to noon at the first good camp
beyond the river. I perfectly understand your reasons, and you equally
understand mine; but I will send a man or two back to help you recross
any cattle you may find in our herd. Now, if a couple of you gentlemen
will ride around on the far side with me, and the others will ride up
near the lead, we will trail the cattle across when we reach the river
without cutting the herd into blocks.”
Flood’s affability, coupled with the fact that the lead cattle were
nearly up to the river, won his point. Our visitors could only yield,
and rode forward with our lead swing men to assist in forcing the lead
cattle into the river. It was swift water, but otherwise an easy
crossing, and we allowed the herd, after coming out on the farther
side, to spread out and graze forward at its pleasure. The wagon and
saddle stock were in sight about a mile ahead, and leaving two men on
herd to drift the cattle in the right direction, the rest of us rode
leisurely on to the wagon, where dinner was waiting. Flood treated our
callers with marked courtesy during dinner, and casually inquired if
any of their number had seen any cattle that day or the day previous
in the Ellison road brand. They had not, they said, explaining that
their range lay on both sides of the Concho, and that during the trail
season they kept all their cattle between that river and the main
Colorado. Their work had kept them on their own range recently, except
when trail herds were passing and needed to be looked through for
strays. It sounded as though our trail cutters could also use
diplomacy on occasion.
When dinner was over and we had caught horses for the afternoon and
were ready to mount, Flood asked our guests for their credentials as
duly authorized trail cutters. They replied that they had none, but
offered in explanation the statement that they were merely cutting in
the interest of the immediate locality, which required no written
authority.
Then the previous affability of our foreman turned into iron. “Well,
men,” said he, “if you have no authority to cut this trail, then you
don’t cut this herd. I must have inspection papers before I can move a
brand out of the county in which it is bred, and I’ll certainly let no
other man, local or duly appointed, cut an animal out of this herd
without written and certified authority. You know that without being
told, or ought to. I respect the rights of every man posted on a trail
to cut it. If you want to see my inspection papers, you have a right
to demand them, and in turn I demand of you your credentials, showing
who you work for and the list of brands you represent; otherwise no
harm’s done; nor do you cut any herd that I’m driving.”
“Well,” said one of the men, “I saw a couple of head in my own
individual brand as we rode up the herd. I’d like to see the man who
says that I haven’t the right to claim my own brand, anywhere I find
it.”
“If there’s anything in our herd in your individual brand,” said
Flood, “all you have to do is to give me the brand, and I’ll cut it
for you. What’s your brand?”
“The ‘Window Sash.’”
“Have any of you boys seen such a brand in our herd?” inquired Flood,
turning to us as we all stood by our horses ready to start.
The strangers, who actually were rustlers, had hoped to bluff Flood out
of some cattle. All herds traveling across unfenced range managed to
pick up strays from time to time. When Flood would not let the men get
away with their trick, they fell back on claiming cows with the “Window
Sash” brand. Three such animals had found their way into the big herd as
it moved north. After the rustlers angrily drove off their trio of
scrawny cows, Flood met some Texas Rangers under the command of Corporal
Homes. They laid a trap for the rustlers, who had threatened to return.
Hames at once assumed charge of the herd, Flood gladly rendering every
assistance possible. We night herded as usual, but during the two
middle guards, Hames sent out four of his Rangers to scout the
immediate outlying country, though, as we expected, they met with no
adventure. At daybreak the Rangers threw their packs into our wagon
and their loose stock into our _remuda_, and riding up the trail a
mile or more, left us, keeping well out of sight. We were all hopeful
now that the trail cutters of the day before would make good their
word and return. In this hope we killed time for several hours that
morning, grazing the cattle and holding the wagon in the rear. Sending
the wagon ahead of the herd had been agreed on as the signal between
our foreman and the Ranger corporal, at first sight of any posse
behind us. We were beginning to despair of their coming, when a dust
cloud appeared several miles back down the trail. We at once hurried
the wagon and _remuda_ ahead to warn the Rangers, and allowed the
cattle to string out nearly a mile in length.
A fortunate rise in the trail gave us a glimpse of the cavalcade in
our rear, which was entirely too large to be any portion of Straw’s
[_foreman of a herd that the rustlers had stampeded earlier_] outfit;
and shortly we were overtaken by our trail cutters of the day before,
now increased to twenty-two mounted men. Flood was intentionally in
the lead of the herd, and the entire outfit galloped forward to stop
the cattle. When they had nearly reached the lead, Flood turned back
and met the rustlers.
“Well, I’m as good as my word,” said the leader, “and I’m here to trim
your herd as I promised you I would. Throw off and hold up your
cattle, or I’ll do it for you.”
Several of our outfit rode up at this juncture in time to hear Flood’s
reply: “If you think you’re equal to the occasion, hold them up
yourself. If I had as big an outfit as you have, I wouldn’t ask any
man to help me. I want to watch a Colorado River outfit work a herd—I
might learn something. My outfit will take a rest, or perhaps hold the
cut or otherwise clerk for you. But be careful and don’t claim
anything that you are not certain is your own, for I reserve the right
to look over your cut before you drive it away.”
The rustlers rode in a body to the lead, and when they had thrown the
herd off the trail, about half of them rode back and drifted towards
the rear cattle. Flood called our outfit to one side and gave us our
instructions, the herd being entirely turned over to the rustlers.
After they began cutting, we rode around and pretended to assist in
holding the cut as the strays in our herd were being cut out.... Not a
man of us even cast a glance up the trail, or in the direction of the
Rangers; but when the work was over, Flood protested with the leader
of the rustlers over some five or six head of dim-branded cattle which
actually belonged to our herd. But he was exultant and would listen to
no protests, and attempted to drive away the cut, now numbering nearly
fifty head. Then we rode across their front and stopped them. In the
parley which ensued, harsh words were passing, when one of our outfit
blurted out in well-feigned surprise——
“Hello, who’s that, coming over there?”
A squad of men were riding leisurely through our abandoned herd,
coming over to where the two outfits were disputing.
“What’s the trouble here, gents?” inquired Hames as he rode up.
“Who are you and what might be your business, may I ask?” inquired the
leader of the rustlers.
“Personally I’m nobody, but officially I’m Corporal in Company B,
Texas Rangers—well, if there isn’t smiling Ed Winters, the biggest
cattle thief ever born in Medina County. Why, I’ve got papers for you;
for altering the brands on over fifty head of ‘C’ cattle into a ‘G’
brand. Come here, dear, and give me that gun of yours. Come on, and no
false moves or funny work or I’ll shoot the white out of your eye.
Surround this layout, lads, and let’s examine them more closely.”
At this command, every man in our outfit whipped out his six-shooter,
the Rangers leveled their carbines on the rustlers, and in less than a
minute’s time they were disarmed and as crestfallen a group of men as
ever walked into a trap of their own setting. Hames got out a “black
book,” and after looking the crowd over concluded to hold the entire
covey, as the descriptions of the “wanted” seemed to include most of
them. Some of the rustlers attempted to explain their presence, but
Hames decided to hold the entire party, “just to learn them to be more
careful of their company the next time,” as he put it.