A COW-HUNTERS' COURT
The recent death of Shanghai Rhett, at Llano, Texas, makes another hole
in the rapidly thinning ranks of the pioneer Texas cow-hunters.
Cow-hunting in early days was the industry upon which many of the
greatest fortunes of the State were founded, and from it sprang the
great cattle-ranch industry that between the years 1866 and 1885
converted into gold the rich wild grasses of the tenantless plains and
mountains of Texas, New Mexico, the Indian Territory, Kansas, Nebraska,
Colorado, Wyoming, Dakota, and Montana.
The economic value of this great industrial movement in promoting the
settlement and development of that vast region of the West lying
between the ninety-eighth and one hundred and twentieth meridians, and
embracing half the total area of the United States, is comprehended by
few who were not personally familiar with the conditions of its rise
and progress. There can be no question that the ranch industry
hastened the occupation and settlement of the Plains by at least thirty
years. Farming in those wilds was then an impossibility. Remote from
railways, unmapped, and untrod by white men, it was under the sway of
hostile Indians, before whose attacks isolated farming settlements,
with houses widely scattered, would have been defenceless,--alike in
their position and in their inexperience in Indian warfare. Then,
moreover, there was neither a market nor means of transportation or the
farmer's product. All these conditions the Texas cow-hunters changed,
and they did it in little more than a decade.
In Texas were bred the leaders and the rank and file of that great army
of cow-hunters whose destiny it was to become the pioneers of this vast
region. Pistol and knife were the treasured toys of their childhood;
they were inured to danger and to hardship; they were expert horsemen,
trained Indian-fighters, reckless of life but cool in its defence; and
thus they were an ideal class for the pacification of the Plains.
Shanghai Rhett's death removed one of the comparatively few survivors
of this most interesting and eventful past.
In Texas after the war, when Shang was young, a pony, a lariat, a
six-shooter, and a branding iron were sufficient instruments for the
acquisition of wealth. A trained eye and a practised hand were
necessary for the effective use of pistol and lariat; the running iron
anybody could wield; therefore, while a necessary feature of equipment,
the iron was a secondary affair. The pistol was useful in settling
annoying questions of title; the horse and the lariat, in taking
possession after title was settled; the iron, in marking the property
with a symbol of ownership. The property in question was always cattle.
Before the war, cattle were abundant in Texas. Fences were few.
Therefore, the cattle roamed at will over hill and plain. To determine
ownership each owner adopted a distinctive "mark and brand." The
owner's mark and brand were put upon the young before they left their
mothers, and upon grown cattle when purchases were made. Thus the
broad sides and quarters of those that changed hands many times were
covered over with this barbarous record of their various transfers.
The system of marking and branding had its origin among the Mexicans.
Marking consists in cutting the ears or some part of the animal's hide
in such a way as to leave a permanent distinguishing mark. One owner
would adopt the "swallow fork," a V-shaped piece cut out of the tip of
the ear; another, the "crop," the tip of the ear cut squarely off;
another, the "under-half crop," the under half of the tip of the ear
cut away; another, the "over-half crop," the reverse of the last;
another, the "under-bit," a round nick cut in the lower edge of the
ear; another, the "over-bit," the reverse of the last; another, the
"under-slope," the under half of the ear removed by cutting diagonally
upward; another, the "over-slope," the reverse of the last; another,
the "grub," the ear cut off close to the head; another, the "wattle," a
strip of the hide an inch wide and two or three inches long, either on
forehead, shoulder, or quarters, skinned and left hanging by one end,
where before healing it leaves a conspicuous lump; another, the
"dewlap," three or four inches of the loose skin under the throat
skinned down and left hanging.
Branding consists in applying a red-hot iron to any part of the animal
for six or eight seconds, until the hide is seared. Properly done,
hair never again grows on the seared surface and the animal is "branded
for life." A small five-inch brand on a young calf becomes a great
twelve-to-eighteen-inch mark by the time the beast is fully grown.
In Mexico the art of branding dates back to the time when few men were
lettered and most men used a _rubrica_ mark or flourish instead of a
written signature. Thus, in Mexico the brand is always a device,
whatever complex combination of lines and circles the whim of the owner
may conceive. In this country the brand was usually a combination of
letters or numerals, though sometimes shapes and forms are represented.
Branding and marking cattle and horses is certainly a most cruel
practice, but under the old conditions of the open range, where
individual ownerships numbered thousands of head, no other means
existed of contradistinguishing title.
During the war these vast herds grew and increased unattended,
neglected by owners, who were in the field with the armies of the
Confederacy. So it happened that hundreds of thousands of cattle
ranged the plains of Texas after the war, unmarked and unbranded, wild
as the native game, to which no man could establish title. This
situation afforded an opportunity which the hard-riding and desperate
men who found themselves stranded on this far frontier after the wreck
of the Confederacy were quick to seize. Shang Rhett was one of them.
From chasing Federal soldiers they turned to chasing unbranded steers,
and found the latter occupation no less exciting and much more
profitable than the former.
First, bands of free companions rode together and pooled their gains.
Then the thrift of some and the improvidence of others set in motion
the immutable laws of distribution. Soon a class of rich and powerful
individual owners was created, who employed great outfits of ten to
fifty men each, splendidly mounted and armed. These outfits were in
continually moving camps, and travelled light, without wagons or tents.
The climate being mild even in winter, seldom more than two blankets to
the man were carried for bedding. The cooking paraphernalia were
equally simple, at the most consisting of a coffee pot, a frying-pan, a
stew kettle, and a Dutch oven. Each man carried a tin cup tied to his
saddle. Plates, knives, and forks were considered unnecessary
luxuries, as every man wore a bowie knife at his belt, and was
dexterous in using his slice of bread as a plate to hold whatever
delicacy the frying-pan or kettle might contain. Sometimes even the
Dutch oven was dispensed with, and bread was baked by winding thin
rolls of dough round a stick and planting the stick in the ground,
inclined over a bed of live coals. Often the frying-pan was left
behind, and the meat roasted on a stick over the fire; and no meat in
the world was ever so delicious as a good fat side of ribs so roasted.
The wild, unbranded cattle were everywhere--in the cross-timbers of the
Palo Pinto, in the hills and among the post oaks of the Concho and the
Llano, on the broad savannas of the Lower Guadalupe and the Brazos, in
the plains and mesquite thickets of the Nueces and the Frio. And
through these wild regions, on the outer fringe of settlement, ranged
the cow-hunters, as merry and happy a lot as ever courted adventure,
careless of their lives.
Of adventure and hazard the cow-hunters had quite enough to keep the
blood tingling. They had to deal with wild men as well as wild cattle.
Comanches and Kiowas, the old lords of the manor, were bitterly
disputing every forward movement of the settler along the whole
frontier. No community, from Griffin to San Antonio, escaped their
attacks and depredations. Indeed, these incursions were regular
monthly visitations, made always "in the light of the moon." A war
party of naked bucks on naked horses, the lightest and most dexterous
cavalry in the world, would slip softly near some isolated ranch or
lonely camp by night. The cleverest and cunningest would dismount and
steal swiftly in upon their quarry. Slender, sinewy, bronze figures
creeping and crouching like panthers, crafty as foxes, fierce and
merciless as maddened bulls, their presence was rarely known until the
blow fell. Sometimes they were content to steal the settlers' horses,
and by daylight be many miles away to the west or north. Sometimes
they fired buildings and shot down the inmates as they ran out.
Sometimes they crept silently into camps, knifed or tomahawked one or
more of the sleepers, and stole away, all so noiselessly that others
sleeping near were undisturbed. Sometimes they lay in ambush about a
camp till dawn, and then with mad war-whoops charged among the sleepers
with their deadly arrows and tomahawks.
Against these wily marauders the cow-hunters could never abate their
guard. And it was these same cow-hunters the Indians most dreaded, for
they were tireless on a trail and utterly reckless in attack. It was
not often the Indians got the best of them, and then only by ambush, or
overwhelming numbers. Better armed, of stouter hearts in a stand-up
fight, little bands of these cow-hunters often soundly thrashed war
parties out-numbering them ten to one.
Then it not infrequently fell out that collisions occurred between
rival outfits of cow-hunters, disputes over territory or cattle, which
led to bitter feuds not settled till one side or the other was killed
off or run out of the country. Battles royal were fought more than
once in which a score or more of men were killed, wherein the _casus
belli_ was a difference as to the ownership of a brindle steer.
These men were a law unto themselves. Courts were few and far between
on the line of the outer settlements. Powder and lead came cheaper
than attorneys' fees, and were, moreover, found to be more effective.
Thus the rifle and pistol were almost invariably the cow-hunters' court
of first and last resort for disputes of every nature. Except in rare
instances where there happened to be survivors among the families of
the original plaintiff and defendant, this form of litigation was never
prolonged or tiresome. When there were any survivors the case was sure
to be re-argued.
Occasionally, of course, in the immediate settlements a case would be
brought to formal trial before a judge and jury. While, as a rule, the
procedure of these courts conformed to the statutes and was formal
enough, rather startling informalities sometimes characterized their
sessions. A case in point, of which Shang Rhett was the hero, occurred
at Llano.
At that time the town of Llano could boast of only one building, a big
rough stone house, loop-holed for defence against the Indians. Under
this one roof the enterprising owner assembled a variety of industries
and performed a variety of functions that would dismay the most
versatile man of any older community. Here he kept a general store,
operated blacksmith and wheelwright shops, served as post-master, ran a
hotel, and sat as justice of the peace. Indeed, he got so much in the
habit of self-reliance in all emergencies, that in more than one
instance he subjected himself to some criticism by calmly sitting as
both judge and jury in cases wherein he had no jurisdiction. Getting a
jury at Llano was no easy task. Often the country for miles around
might be scoured without producing a full panel.
Llano being the county seat, and this the only house in town, it
somewhat naturally from time to time enjoyed temporary distinction as a
court house, when at long intervals the Llano County court met. The
accommodations, however, were inconveniently limited--so limited in
fact that on one occasion at least they were responsible for a sad
miscarriage of justice.
A murder trial was on. One of the earliest settlers, a man well known
and generally liked, had killed a newcomer. It was felt that he had
given his victim no chance for his life, else he probably would not
have been brought to trial at all. And even in spite of the prevailing
disapproval, there was an undercurrent of sympathy for him in the
community.
However, court met and the case was called. Several settlers were
witnesses in the case. It was, therefore, considered a remarkable and
encouraging evidence of Llano County's growth in population when the
District Attorney succeeded in raking together enough men for a jury.
At noon of the second day of the trial the evidence was all in,
arguments of counsel finished, and the case given to the jury. The
prisoner's case seemed hopeless. A clearly premeditated murder had
been proved, against which scarcely any defence was produced.
Judge, jury, prisoner, and witnesses all had dinner together in the
"court-room," which was always demeaned from its temporary dignity as a
hall of justice, to the humble rank of a dining-room as soon as court
adjourned. Directly after dinner the jury withdrew for deliberation,
in custody of two bailiffs.
The house was large, to be sure, but its capacity was already so far
taxed that it could not provide a jury room. It was therefore the
custom of the bailiffs to use as a jury room an open, mossy glade
shaded by a great live oak tree on the farther bank of the Llano, and
distant two or three hundred yards from the court house. Here,
therefore, the jury were conducted, the bailiffs retired to some
distance, and discussion of a verdict was begun. In spite of the
weight of evidence against him, two or three were for acquittal. The
others said they were "damned sorry; Jim was a mighty good feller, but
it 'peared like they'd have to foller the evidence." So the discussion
pro and con ran on into the mid-afternoon without result.
It was an intensely hot afternoon, the air close and heavy with
humidity, an hour when all Texans who can do so take a siesta. Judge
and counsel were snoozing peacefully on the gallery of the distant
court house, and the two bailiffs guarding the "jury room," overcome by
habit and the heat, were stretched at full length on the ground,
snoring in concert. This situation made the opportunity for a friend
at court. Shang Rhett was the friend awaiting this opportunity.
Stepping lightly out of the brush where he had been concealed, a few
paces brought him among the jurors.
"Howdy! boys?" Shang drawled. "Pow'ful hot evenin', ain't it!
Moseyin' roun' sort o' lonesome like, I thought mebbe so you fellers 'd
be tired o' talkin' law, an' I'd jes' step over an' pass the time o'
day an' give you a rest."
A rude diplomat, perhaps, Shang was nevertheless a cunning one.
Several jurors expressed their appreciation of his sympathy and one
answered: "Tired o' talkin'! Wall, I reckon so. I'm jes' tireder an'
dryer 'n if I'd been tailin' down beef steers all day. My ol' tongue's
been a-floppin' till thar ain't nary 'nother flop left in her 'nless I
could git to ile her up with a swaller o' red-eye, an--"
regretfully--"I reckon thar ain't no sort o' chanst o' that."
"Thar ain't, hey?" replied Shang, producing a big jug from the brush
near by. "'Pears like, 'nless I disremember, thar's some red-eye in
this yere jug."
Upon examination the jug was found to be nearly full; but, passed and
repassed around the "jury room," it was not long before the jug was
empty, and the jury full.
Shrewdly seizing the proper moment before the jurors got drunk enough
to be obstinate and combative, Shang made his appeal. "Fellers," he
said, "I allows you all knows that Jim's my friend, an' I reckon you
cain't say but what he 's been a mighty good friend to more'n one o'
you. Course, I know he got terrible out o' luck when he had t' kill
this yer Arkinsaw feller. But then, boys, Arkinsawyers don't count fer
much nohow, do they? Pow'ful onery, no account lot, sca'cely fit to
practise shootin' at. We fellers ain't a-goin' to lay that up agin
Jim, air we? We ain't a-goin' to help this yer jack-leg prosecutin'
attorney send ol' Jim up. Why, fellers, we knows well enough that airy
one o' us might 'a done the same thing ef we'd been out o' luck, like
Jim was, in meetin' up with this yer Arkinsawyer afore we'd had our
mornin' coffee. What say, boys? Bein' as how any o' us might be in
Jim's boots mos' any day, reckon we'll have to turn him loose?"
Shang's pathetic appeal for Jim's life clearly won outright more than
half the jury, but there were several who, while their sympathies were
with Jim, "'lowed they'd have to bring a verdic' accordin' to the
evidence."
"Verdic'? Why, fellers," retorted Jim's advocate, "whar's the use of a
fool verdic'? 'Sposin' we fellers was goin' to be verdicked? This is
a time for us fellers to stan' together, shua'. I'll tell you what
le's do; le's all slip off inter th' brush, cotch our hosses an' pull
our freight fer home. This yer court ain't goin' to git airy jury but
us in Llano 'till a new one's growed, an' if we skip I reckon they'll
have to turn Jim loose."
This alternative met all objections. In a moment the "jury room" was
empty.
Shortly thereafter the two bailiffs, awakened by a clatter of hoofs
over the rocky hills behind them, were doubly shocked to find the only
tenant of the "jury room" an empty jug.
One of the bailiffs sighted some of the escaping jurors and opened
fire; the other hastened to alarm the court. The latter, running
toward the house, met the judge and counsel who had been roused by the
firing, and yelled out: "Jedge, the hull jury's stampeded! Bill's
winged two o' them. Gi' me a fast hoss an' a lariat an' mebbe so I'll
cotch some more."
Two or three jurors who were too much fuddled with drink to saddle and
mount were quickly captured. The rest escaped. Of course, the court
was outraged and indignant, but it was powerless. So Jim was released,
thanks to Shang's diplomacy and eloquence. And, by the way, in the
dark days that came to ranchmen in 1885, Jim, risen to be a well-known
and powerful banker in ------ City, furnished the ready money necessary
to save Shang's imperilled fortune; and when at length he heard that
Shang was at death's door, Jim found the time to leave his large
affairs and come all the way up from ------ to Llano to bid his old
friend farewell.
For two or three years after the war the cow-hunters were busy
accumulating cattle. From Palo Pinto to San Diego great outfits were
working incessantly, scouring the wilds for unbranded cattle.
Directly an animal was sighted, one or two of these riders would spur
in pursuit, rope him by horns or legs, and throw him to the ground.
Then dismounting and springing nimbly upon the prostrate beast, they
quickly fastened the beast's feet with a "hogtie" hitch so that he
could not rise, a fire was built, the short saddle iron heated, and the
beast branded. The feet were then unbound and the cow-hunter made a
flying leap into his saddle, and spurred away to escape the infuriated
charge sure to be delivered by his maddened victim.
In this work horses were often fatally gored and not a few men lost
their lives. Notwithstanding the fact that it was such a downright
desperate task, the men became so expert that they did not even
hesitate to tackle, alone and single-handed, great bulls of twice the
weight of their small ponies; they roped, held, threw, and branded
them. The least accident or mistake, a slip of the foot, a stumble by
one's horse, a breaking cinch, a failure to maintain full tension on
the lariat, slowness in dismounting to tie an animal or in mounting
after it was untied--any one of these things happening meant death,
unless the cow-hunter could save himself with a quick and accurate
shot. Indeed the boys so loved this work and were so proud of their
skill, that when an unusually vicious old "mossback" was encountered,
each strove to be the first catch and master him. And God knows they
should have loved it, as must any man with real red blood coursing
through his veins, for it was not work; I libel it to call it work; it
was rather sport, and the most glorious sport in the world. Riding to
hounds over the stiffest country, or hunting grizzly in juniper
thickets, is tame beside cow-hunting in the old days.
The happiest period of my life was my first five years on the range in
the early seventies. Indeed it was a period so happy that memory plays
me a shabby trick to recall its incidents and fire me with longings for
pleasures I may never again experience. Its scenes are all before me
now, vivid as if of yesterday.
The night camp is made beside a singing stream or a bubbling spring;
the night horses are caught and staked; there is a roaring, merry fire
of fragrant cedar boughs; a side of fat ribs is roasting on a spit
before the fire, its sweet juices hissing as they drop into the flames,
and sending off odors to drive one ravenous; the rich amber contents of
the coffee pot is so full of life and strength that it is well-nigh
bursting the lid with joy over the vitality and stimulus it is to bring
you. Supper eaten, there follow pipe and cigarette, jest and bandinage
[Transcriber's note: badinage?] over the day's events; stories and
songs of love, of home, of mother; and rude impromptu epics relating
the story of victories over vicious horses, wild beasts, or savage
Indians. When the fire has burnt low and become a mass of glowing
coals, voices are hushed, the camp is still, and each, half hypnotized
by gazing into the weirdly shifting lights of the dying embers, is
wrapped in introspection. Then, rousing, you lie down, your canopy the
dark blue vault of the heavens, your mattress the soft, curling buffalo
grass. After a night of deep refreshing sleep you spring at dawn with
every faculty renewed and tense. Breakfast eaten, you catch a favorite
roping-horse, square and heavy of shoulder and quarter, short of back,
with wide nervous nostrils, flashing eyes, ears pointing to the
slightest sound, pasterns supple and strong as steel, and of a nerve
and temper always reminding you that you are his master only by
sufferance. Now begins the day's hunt. Riding softly through cedar
brake or mesquite thicket, slipping quickly from one live oak to
another, you come upon your quarry, some great tawny yellow monster
with sharp-pointed, wide-spreading horns, standing startled and rigid,
gazing at you with eyes wide with curiosity, uncertain whether to
attack or fly. Usually he at first turns and runs, and you dash after
him through timber or over plain, the great loop of your lariat
circling and hissing about your head, the noble horse between your
knees straining every muscle in pursuit, until, come to fit distance,
the loop is cast. It settles and tightens round the monster's horns,
and your horse stops and braces himself to the shock that may either
throw the quarry or cast horse and rider to the ground, helpless, at
his mercy. Once he is caught, woe to you if you cannot master and tie
him, for a struggle is on, a struggle of dexterity and intelligence
against brute strength and fierce temper, that cannot end till beast or
man is vanquished!
Thus were the great herds accumulated in Texas after the war. But
cattle were so abundant that their local value was trifling. Markets
had to be sought. The only outlets were the mining camps and Indian
agencies of the Northwest, and the railway construction camps then
pushing west from the Missouri River. So the Texans gathered their
cattle into herds of two thousand to three thousand head each, and
struck north across the trackless Plains. Indeed this movement reached
such proportions that, excepting in a few narrow mining belts, there is
scarcely one of the greater cities and towns between the ninety-eighth
and one hundred and twentieth meridians which did not have its origin
as a supply point for these nomads. Figures will emphasize the
magnitude of the movement. The cattle-drive northward from Texas
between the years 1866 and 1885 was approximately as follows:
1866 260,000 1877 201,000
1867 35,000 1878 265,649
1868 75,000 1879 257,927
1869 350,000 1880 394,784
1870 350,000 1881 250,000
1871 600,000 1882 250,000
1872 350,000 1883 265,000
1873 404,000 1884 416,000
1874 166,000 1885 350,000
1875 151,618 ---------
1876 321,998 Total 5,713,976
The range business on a large and profitable scale was long since
practically done and ended. In Texas there remain very few open ranges
capable of turning off fair grass beef. With the good lands farmed and
the poor lands exhausted, the ranges have become narrower every year;
and every year the cost of getting fat grass steers has been eating
deeper and deeper into the rangeman's pocket. Of course, there are
still isolated ranges where the rangemen still hang on, but they are
not many, and most of them must soon fall easy prey to the ploughshare.
When the rangeman was forced to lease land in Texas, or buy water
fronts in the Territories and build fences, his fate was soon sealed.
With these conditions, he soon found that the sooner he reduced his
numbers, improved his breed, and went on tame feed, the better. A corn
shock is now a more profitable close herder than any cowpuncher who
ever wore spurs. This is a sad thing for an old rangeman to
contemplate, but it is nevertheless the simple truth. Soon the merry
crack of the six Footer will no more be heard in the land, its wild and
woolly manipulator being driven across the last divide, with faint show
of resistance, by an unassuming granger and his all-conquering hoe.
The rangeman, like many another in the past, has served his purpose and
survived his usefulness. His work is practically done, and few realize
what a noble work it has been, or what its cost in hardship and danger.
I refer, of course, not alone to the development of a great industry,
which in its time has added millions to the material wealth of the
country, but to its collateral results and influence. But for the
venturesome rangeman and his rifle, millions of acres, from the Gulf in
the South to Bow River in the far Canadian Northwest, now constituting
the peaceful, prosperous homes of hundreds of thousands of thrifty
farmers, would have remained for many years longer what it had been
from the beginning--a hunting and battle ground for Indians, and a safe
retreat for wild game.
What was the hardship, and what the personal risk with which this great
pioneer work was accomplished, few know except those who had a hand in
it, and they as a rule, were modest men who thought little of what they
did, and now that it is done, say less.