The nearer we approached to the ranch the more like a home place it
looked to us, the only thing that did not appear natural being the
hayracks that were usually piled up for the horses. These were all
gone, thus proving that the ranchman had not been able to provide any
more for the benefit of his steeds that were to carry him and his
cowboys during all sorts of weather. Of course there could be no hay
while the grass that was to furnish it was all burned up. As we drew
nearer we discovered a man and a boy sitting on the porch. They did
not wait for us to speak to them, but the boy got up with his face
beaming all over with smiles, while the man, who seemed to be a sort of
invalid, kept his chair.
“Strangers, you’re welcome to Hardscrabble,” said he. “Alight and
hitch. Your horses won’t go very far away, and so you can turn them
loose.”
“Thank you,” said I. I was expected to do all the talking. “Do we
address Mr. Davenport?”
“That is my name,” returned the invalid. “And I see you are boys, too.
Bob will be glad of that. Come up here.”
It did not take us very long to remove our saddles and bridles from
our horses and carry them up on the porch. Then we shook hands with
Mr. Davenport and his son Bob, and took the chairs that were promptly
brought out to us.
“You are very young men to be travelling around this way,” said the
invalid. “I shouldn’t think that your parents would permit it.”
“Well, I don’t know that we have any parents to say what we shall do.
We are alone in the world, with the exception of Tom here, who has an
uncle in Mississippi. We have come a thousand miles to buy some cattle;
but I don’t think, from what I have seen of your cattle, that we shall
want any.”
“Oh, this drought is simply awful,” said the invalid, rising up in his
chair. “We haven’t had a drop of rain for sixteen months, and if it
keeps on much longer we shall all die in the poor-house. The route you
came led you through a portion of my herd. I want to know if you ever
saw such a sorry looking lot of cattle as they are?”
This seemed to be the opportunity that Mr. Davenport was waiting for,
and he began and told us all about those troublous times in Texas
during the past two years, and he said that the drought and the farmers
were to blame for it. There had been a period in the history of the
State when the stockmen had things all their own way; when their herds
roamed over almost two thousand square miles of territory, going
wherever grass and water were most abundant, and attended by only a few
Mexican vaqueros, whose principal business it was to see that their
employer’s outfit did not become mixed up with cattle belonging to
somebody else. But, of course, this state of affairs could not continue
forever in a country like ours. The soil of Texas was as well adapted
to agriculture as it was to stock raising, and it was not long before
people began to find it out.
When the tide of immigration begins setting toward any State or
Territory, it is astonishing how quickly it will become filled up. In a
very short time the farmers grew to be a power in the cattle lands of
Texas. Of course they settled along the water courses, or as close to
them as they could get, and when they selected their land they fenced
it in and turned it up with the plough, thus depriving the cattlemen of
just so many acres of pasture, and in some instances shutting them off
from the streams.
Of course, too, bad blood existed between these two classes from the
very first. The cattlemen saw their limits growing smaller day by
day, and they did not take it very much to heart when their half wild
cattle broke through the fences and ruined the fields upon which the
farmers had expended so much labor; but they got fighting mad when the
farmers sued them in the courts and were awarded heavy damages for
their crops. Neighborhood rows and civil wars on a small scale were
of common occurrence, and during this particular summer the long to be
remembered drought came, and I could rest assured of one thing, and
that was, matters were going to be brought to a climax. It was surely
coming, and the farmers would find out one thing, and that was, that
Mr. Davenport, even if he was half dead from consumption, could shoot
as well as anybody.
For long months not a particle of rain fell upon the parched soil, and
when the school-lands, on which large numbers of cattle grazed, were
utterly barren of verdure and rendered worthless for years to come, and
all the little streams went dry, the ranchmen saw ruin staring them in
the face. The sufferings of the walking skeletons, which represented
every dollar they had in the world, were terrible in the extreme, and
grass and water must be had at any price. The nearest point at which
these could be had was on the West Fork of Trinity. It was true that
the most, if not all, of the land in that vicinity had been turned into
farms and fenced in, but what did the desperate cattlemen care for
that? Grass and water were the free gifts of Heaven, and, if necessary,
they were ready to fight for their share.
What it was that induced Mr. Davenport to say all this to me, an entire
stranger, I cannot imagine, unless it was because he was so excited
by the financial distress which he saw hanging over him that he must
tell it to somebody. Sometimes during his narrative he would get up
out of his chair and pace back and forth on the porch as if all his
old strength had come back to him. His eye would kindle, until I made
up my mind that if all the ranchmen were like him there would be some
shooting before the summer was over. For myself I heartily wished I was
safe back where I belonged.
“Do you own this land where you are located?” I asked, feeling that I
must say something.
“No, nor does anybody else. We are squatters. My neighbors tell me that
there was a time, not so very long ago, when this ranch was located at
least a hundred miles to the east of where it is now; but the farmers
kept coming in until I am where I am now. You can’t keep cattle where
there is land fenced in.”
“What makes you think that you are going to drive your stock away from
here toward Trinity?”
“Because there were a couple of men here from the lower counties, not
three weeks ago, to see if I would join in,” answered the invalid.
“You see my cattle would get all mixed up with others and there is no
telling when we would get them apart. That will make it necessary for
me to hire some more men, and as you haven’t got anything to do, why
can’t you hire out to me?”
“That’s an idea,” said I. “I will speak to my companions about it and
see what they have to say. We would rather not have any shooting----”
“Oh, you will see plenty of it if you stay around with us,” said Mr.
Davenport. “The minute we get near Trinity it will commence. Why, there
must be as much as one hundred and seventy-five thousand head of cattle
that need watering. It’s all farms up that way too.”
“I was about to say that we would rather not have any shooting around
where we are,” I continued. “But if there is going to be any we would
rather be where we can have a hand in it.”
“That’s the trouble, is it?” said Mr. Davenport, with a smile.
“Yes, sir. And as far as paying us anything--why, we are here with you
now, and if you will give us board it is all we ask.”
I looked at Tom and he nodded his head. I glanced around for Elam, but
he and Bob had disappeared. They had got into conversation and had gone
off to look at something.
“That’s all right,” said Mr. Davenport. “That boy has been confined
here on the ranch and he has not seen a companion before. I have been
afraid to let him out of my sight. By the way, this man whom you have
just introduced to me is all right?”
“Who? Elam? Oh, yes! You can trust him anywhere.”
“I mean he wouldn’t let harm come to Bob without making a fuss about
it.”
“No, sir,” said I, rather astonished at the proposition. “I don’t see
that any harm can come to him out here.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Davenport, with a heavy sigh, which told
how heavily the matter bore on his mind, “I don’t know.”
Not to dwell too long on incidents that are not connected with this
story, I will simply say that we were presented to two of the cowboys
that night at supper time as the fellows Mr. Davenport had employed to
help him drive his cattle north, our duties to begin on the day the
march commenced. I took a great notion to the two men--tall, rawboned,
and rough, and the simple and earnest manner in which they agreed with
their employer on all questions concerning the conduct of the farmers,
in keeping his cattle out on the barren prairie where there was neither
water nor grass to be had, made me think that their hearts were in the
matter.
During the next week I noticed that Bob and Elam went off somewhere
immediately after breakfast and did not get back before night. That
was all right to me, but I wanted to make sure that Elam knew what he
was doing, so one day when I got a chance to speak to him in private I
said:
“What do you and Bob do when you are gone all day?”
“Sho!” said Elam, with a laugh. “He just makes me lay under the trees
and tell him stories.”
“You are sure no harm comes to him?”
“Harm? What is going to harm him out here?”
“I don’t know and his father doesn’t know; but if you are wise you will
keep your eyes open.”
“Harm!” repeated Elam. “Well; I should like to see somebody harm him.
He’s got a good heart, that boy has. Be they going to shoot him?”
“I don’t know what they are going to do, I tell you. If his father ever
tells me I will tell you.”
During all this time Mr. Davenport kept Tom and me close to himself.
It was a companionship that was entirely new to him in that country,
and he wanted to make the most of it. Before I had been acquainted with
him twenty-four hours I could see that he was different from most men
who made stock raising a business, that for years he had been out there
where he had nobody to talk to, and I was sure he had some secret to
tell us. One day it all came out, as I knew it would, if we let the
matter alone and did not trouble him with it. It was a hot day during
the first of August and we were sitting there on the porch, trying to
raise a little breeze by fanning ourselves with our hats. It was after
dinner, and the Mexican cook had gone somewhere to sleep and we were
there alone.
“I haven’t always been what you see me now,” said Mr. Davenport,
settling back in his chair as if he had resolved upon his course. “I
have a secret which I want to tell Bob, but I don’t know how to go
about it. It isn’t anything of which I am ashamed,--many men have done
the same before me,--but somehow I have let it go so long that it has
become a task to me. I want to ask your advice about it. You are
comparative strangers to me, but somehow I have taken to you and want
to trust you. I haven’t had anyone around me to whom I was willing to
confide it, and now I know that I am not long for this world I want to
see Bob have his rights.”
With these words the invalid began his story. It was short, but we
could both see how great an effort it cost him.
Mr. Davenport was an old “forty-niner.” He spent a few successful years
in the gold mines and then returned to the States, and established
himself as a wholesale merchant in St. Louis, his native city, and
soon became known as one of its most enterprising business men. The
only relatives he had in the world, except his son Bob,--who was not
his son in reality,--were an unmarried uncle, who went to Texas and
became a ranchman, and a half brother, who was not a relative to be
proud of. Too lazy to work, this half brother, whose name was Clifford
Henderson, gained a precarious living by his wits. He gambled when he
could raise a stake, and borrowed of his brother when he couldn’t. He
was more familiar with the police court than he was with the interior
of a church, and when his generous brother’s patience was all exhausted
and he positively refused to pay any more of his debts, he left that
brother’s presence with a threat of vengeance on his lips.
“I will get even with you for this,” said he. “Bob is not your son, and
I will see that you don’t adopt him, either. Whenever I see a notice of
your death,--and you can’t live forever,--I will hunt that boy up and
make him know what it is to be in want, as I am at this moment.”
The fact that Bob was not his son ought not to have weighed so heavily
with the invalid as it did, but still he could not bear to enlighten
him. He was the son of a friend in the gold mines, who, dying there,
left Bob alone, and Mr. Davenport took him up. He christened him
Davenport, and the boy always answered to his name. There never had
been any doubt in his mind that Bob would some day come in for all his
money, until this Clifford Henderson began his threatenings; and even
after that Mr. Davenport did not wake up and attend to things as he
ought.
In process of time Mr. Davenport’s unmarried uncle died, and in
his will he made him executor and heir to all the property he had
accumulated in Texas. In the hope that a change in the climate might
prove beneficial to his health, as well as to leave that miserable
Clifford Henderson and all his threatenings behind, Mr. Davenport moved
to Texas and took possession of his legacy, bringing Bob with him. In
fact, the two did not act like father and son, but like two brothers
who could not bear to be separated. All they found when they reached
Texas was a rather dilapidated old house, which was very plainly
furnished, and presided over by a half-breed Mexican cook, who was so
cross and surly that one could hardly get a civil word out of him. The
rest of the help--there were four of them in all--were cowboys. They
spent the most of their lives on the open prairie, looking out for the
safety of Mr. Davenport’s cattle.
“I have got everything----”
Mr. Davenport suddenly paused and put back into his coat the large
pocket book which he had been in the act of showing to us. Then he got
upon his feet and carefully closed the door leading into the cabin, and
walked cautiously to one end of the porch and looked around the house,
then to the other end, but came back without seeing anybody.
“One has to be careful,” said he, in explanation. “I am as afraid of my
help as of anything else.”
“Of your help!” I exclaimed. “If there is anybody here that you are
afraid of, why don’t you discharge him?”
“Because I want to see what he is here for,” said the invalid. “He
works for nothing at all, but yet he always seems to have plenty of
money. You know ’Rastus Johnson?”
Yes, we did know him, and he was one of the few people about the ranch
to whom I had taken a violent dislike. He was just the man to excite
the contempt of a Texan, because he couldn’t ride; but when he came
to Mr. Davenport’s ranch six months ago, and told a pitiful story
about the luck that had befallen him in the mines, he was given odd
jobs to do about the ranch for his board. There were two things that
struck Mr. Davenport as peculiar, or we might say three, and tempted
by something, he knew not what, he kept the man around the house as
much as possible and watched his movements. One was the care he took
of his six-shooters. He had a splendid pair, and when engaged in no
other occupation, he was always rubbing them up until they shone like
silver. The other was his story about the mines. He did not know that
Mr. Davenport was an old forty-niner, and he thought he could say what
he pleased to him and he would believe it. The nearest mines that Mr.
Davenport knew anything of were those located about Denver, the very
place we had come from; and the idea that anyone could walk a thousand
miles, right through a country settled up by cattlemen and farmers,
and be as poor as he was when he struck Mr. Davenport’s ranch, was
ridiculous. But Mr. Davenport kept this to himself. He had Clifford
Henderson in mind, and he resolved if ’Rastus attempted anything out
of the way he would expose him on the spot.
As ’Rastus grew more and more at home about the ranch, other qualities
developed themselves. He took to “snooping” around the house to see
what he could find there, and once, when Mr. Davenport entered the
ranch suddenly, he was certain that he saw ’Rastus engaged in trying
to pick the lock of his desk; but ’Rastus began tumbling up his bed,
and turned upon his employer with such a hearty good-morning that the
invalid was inclined to believe he was mistaken.
“Yes,” said I, in response to Mr. Davenport’s question; “I believe we
know something about ’Rastus. Some of the cowboys have told us a good
deal about him. Is he the one you are afraid of?”
“I’ve got the whole thing right here,” said Mr. Davenport, seating
himself in his chair and drawing a big fat pocket-book from his inside
pocket. “It contains my will, and also instructions in regard to
what I want Bob to do with the rest of our herd in case any escape
the effects of the drought. It also contains a full history of the
manner in which he came to me, and hints regarding those threats of
Henderson--whom I sincerely trust he may never see again. In short,
nothing that I could think of has been omitted.”
“You don’t think that Henderson would follow you down here, do you?”
said Tom.
“My dear boy, you don’t know anything about that man if you think he
wouldn’t follow me to Europe,” said Mr. Davenport sadly. “If he is
alive, Bob will hear from him; and that he is still alive I am forced
to believe from the actions of this man Johnson. I don’t expect to come
back here, and I want you two boys to swear to what I have told you.
You will, won’t you?”
Of course Tom and I agreed to it, and then we wondered what sort of a
man Clifford Henderson could be to scare his half brother so badly as
that.