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CATTLE RANCH TO COLLEGE.
[Illustration: A XXX BUNCH. (_Page 290._)]
CATTLE-RANCH TO COLLEGE
THE TRUE TALE OF A BOY'S ADVENTURES IN THE FAR WEST
BY
RUSSELL DOUBLEDAY
"A GUNNER ABOARD THE YANKEE"
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE Co
MDCCCXCIX
COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY
DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE CO
TO MY MOTHER,
KINDLY CRITIC, COUNSELLOR, AND FRIEND,
THIS BOOK IS
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
PREFACE.
This is a true tale of a boy's life in the West twenty-five years ago.
It is an account of his amusements, his trials, his work, his play. The
incidents described actually happened and are described substantially as
"the boy" related them to the writer.
The "wild and woolly" West is fast vanishing, and a great deal of the
adventurous life is going with it. Buffalo hunts are things of the past;
encounters with Indians that were experienced in the time of John
Worth's boyhood are now happily very rare; railroads have penetrated the
cattle country, and vast herds of cattle are no longer driven long
distances to the shipping point, so that the consequent danger,
hardship, and excitement are largely done away with.
In places the great prairies have been fenced, in others grain grows
where heretofore only buffalo, cattle, and horses ranged, and much of
the free, wild life of the cowboy, the ranchman, and the miner is gone
for all time.
It is hoped that this book will be of interest, not because of its
novelty but of its truthfulness. The author feels that the story of a
boy who has passed through the stern training of a frontier life to an
honorable place in an Eastern university will be acceptable to boys
young and old.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AN INDIAN ATTACK 1
II. THE YOUNG BRAVE'S DARING 20
III. A NARROW ESCAPE 36
IV. HITTING THE TRAIL 54
V. IN A MINING CAMP 73
VI. A SNOWSHOE RACE 91
VII. A BUFFALO HUNT 106
VIII. A CLOSE FINISH 122
IX. A "BAD MAN'S" END 140
X. BATTLE ROYAL 157
XI. A TRYING JOURNEY 177
XII. A CHANGE OF SCENE 195
XIII. HERDING HORSES AND PANNING GOLD 214
XIV. A MIGRATION 229
XV. "RANGE-RIDING" 245
XVI. A BRONCHO BUSTER 261
XVII. A COW-PUNCHER IN EARNEST 273
XVIII. A MIDNIGHT STAMPEDE 289
XIX. AN AWAKENING 304
XX. A TRANSFORMATION 317
XXI. TWELVE HUNDRED MILES AWHEEL TO COLLEGE 331
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
A XXX BUNCH _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
MOUNTING A BUCKING BRONCHO 14
GLANCING OVER SAW AN INDIAN VILLAGE 32
CUSTER'S COMMAND 50
THE TAIL OF THE COOK'S WAGON WAS LET DOWN 62
THE STOCK OF THE RIFLE RESTED CLOSELY AGAINST HIS CHEEK 86
BEN WENT OVER TO WHERE THE GAME LAY 86
ROPING AN UNBROKEN HORSE 98
"CROW HAT'S FACING THIS WAY" 104
THE INDIAN CAMP 104
THE BIGGEST GAME THE COUNTRY AFFORDED 118
A SQUAW ... JUST SAW SOME BUFFALO 118
A SHEPHERD ... ALONE WITH HIS FLOCK 136
A DIFFICULT TASK IF THERE ARE MANY LAMBS IN THE FLOCK 146
MR. WORTH HAD BUILT FOR HIMSELF A NEW HOUSE 158
THE SHEEP RANCH HOUSE 158
HE ... BUCKS, PITCHES, KICKS 170
CURRAN, BRADY'S NIGHT WRANGLER 190
THE MEN BROKE UP INTO LITTLE GROUPS 210
A ROPE CORRAL WAS DRAWN ABOUT THE SADDLE BAND 220
EACH MAN TOOK HIS ROPE AND FLUNG IT OVER THE HORSE HE WANTED 236
A LITTLE BOX OF A CABIN IT WAS 248
THE SNUBBING POST HOLDS HIM FAST 264
JERRY TAKES IN THE SLACK 264
JOHN KNOTS THE ROPE LOOSELY ROUND HIS NECK 264
ROPED 278
THROWN 278
WHOSE IS IT? A QUESTION OF OWNERSHIP 278
DRAGGED IT UP TO THE FIRE 290
... WHILE THE IRON WAS APPLIED 290
HERDS WERE POURING IN FROM EVERY DIRECTION 308
THE DRIVE ... FORDING A STREAM 320
THE SUN RIVER RANCH HOUSE 334
* * * * *
MARGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY JANET MAC DONALD.
The drawings of beaver, etc., on pages 75, 84, and 90, by Ernest Seton
Thompson are reproduced through the courtesy of _Recreation_.
CATTLE RANCH TO COLLEGE.
CHAPTER I.
AN INDIAN ATTACK.
A solitary horseman rode into the little frontier town of Bismarck,
shortly after dark one evening, about twenty-five years ago. Horse and
rider passed up the single unpaved street; in the darkness no one
noticed the fagged condition of the animal, nor the excitement of the
rider, betokened by the continued urging of his weary pony.
The town was unusually full of the nomadic people who made up its
population, cow-punchers, saloon keepers, gamblers, freighters, and
outlaws. The evening quiet was constantly broken by the sounds of
revelry, and the report of a pistol occasionally punctuated the general
noise as some hilarious cowboy playfully shot at the lights.
In the dim ray cast across the street through the small windows of the
saloons and dance halls, no one saw the horseman ride up the street to
"Black Jack's," one of the most conspicuous saloons; here he stiffly
dismounted and tied his pony to the pole where stood a row of other
horses. After glancing around to see that all was secure, he entered. He
was hailed with a chorus of shouted greetings and questions.
"Hello, Harry! what's the matter?"
"Why, there's Harry Hodson! What drove you down the trail to-night?"
"Are you dry, old man? Come and drive a nail with me."
These and many more questions poured in on him so thick and fast that no
chance, for some time, was given him to speak.
As the crowd drew around the newcomer, who was a sober, steady cattleman
from twenty-five miles up the river, they noticed that there was
something out of the ordinary in his manner. Even the fact of his
appearance at that place and hour was unusual.
"No, boys," he said, in answer to the many invitations to drink. "I
think we'll all need clear heads before daylight."
"Why, what's the trouble?" chorused the crowd.
"The fact is," continued Hodson, hurriedly, "I _cached_ my cattle and
then came down to tell you that a big bunch of Indians crossed the river
above my place this afternoon, and they looked as if they were on the
war path."
All were attentive now, and even the most reckless of these wild men,
living continually in the midst of dangers, wore grave faces.
"I didn't stop to investigate. I wasn't taking any chances, you see," he
went on. "So I ran my cattle over onto Woody Island and then started
down the trail, giving the word to the fellows along the road. Hostiles
have been pretty thick across the river lately, and I've had to watch
out."
By this time all hands were thoroughly interested. As Hodson went on
with his tale, the men drew nearer to him, their faces showing how
keenly they realized what his news might mean to all.
Questions followed thick and fast.
"How many were there? Where did they cross?" asked one.
"How many horses? Did they have any squaws with them?"
Without giving Hodson a chance to answer, they all began to talk in an
excited babel of voices, advancing opinions and theories as to what had
taken place. One big fellow, in a red flannel shirt, asserted that they
must have crossed the river at Elbow Island; another contradicted this
statement and said that the stream was too wide at this point and that
they crossed in "bull boats," as the rude craft made of buffalo or cow
hides stretched over strong light frames of willow were called.
Hodson stood apart while this discussion was going on, with the bored
air of one who was fully acquainted with the facts and could end the
unnecessary talk in a moment if he was allowed an opportunity.
"Big Bill" Smith, one of the older men, took in the situation. "Dry up,"
said he; "let Harry talk, will you? He's the only one who knows
anything."
"Well," said Harry, as the crowd once more turned to him, "there isn't
much talking to do, but there's plenty of hustling ahead for us. About
two hundred Indians crossed the river up at Sioux Ford. They were
travelling pretty light, and I guess they are looking for beef or
anything else they can lay their hands on; probably they think they can
scare us off with a few shots and then run the stock off. They had a
lot of horses--not enough to go around--but a lot. We've got to get
ready for them on the jump, for if they're coming they'll be here before
daylight, and the stock and wagons will have to be got in right away."
"Somebody go for Jim Mackenzie," said Big Bill.
As one of the men started for the door to carry out this order, a tall,
commanding figure, grizzled and somewhat bent, but more from hardship
than from age, entered the room. He was recognized at once as the
sheriff: the central figure when trouble was brewing, but a retiring,
inconspicuous citizen when all was peaceful.
When action was required he was in his element. A man to depend on in
time of trouble, one to command in an emergency. It was very noticeable
that these rough cattlemen, accustomed to depend upon themselves, who
when off duty acknowledged no law except their own wishes, instinctively
looked for a leader when confronted with this common danger. No one
thought for an instant of questioning his orders, but obeyed with
military precision. For the time, his word was law.
"Harry," said the sheriff, turning to the bringer of these bad tidings,
after the above facts had been told him, "you put your saddle on my bay
and take a couple of men with you back on the trail. Bring back Jim
White and his outfit of wagons and stock; he's camped down on Hay Creek.
There are some smaller outfits on the Black Hills road; better help them
get in. You'll want to hustle," he added, as Hodson and his two helpers
went out.
"Smith," continued the sheriff, issuing orders as fast as a pony could
trot, "take a couple of men and get in the circle bar [symbol: large
circle with bar under it] stock, there's only a night-herder with
them. The rest of you who have wagons and stock out, bring them in
yourselves. All you loose men," he added, as he noticed that several men
still lingered in the hot, close, smoke-filled room, "get your guns,
saddle up, and come to my shack."
The sheriff had been in the place but five minutes, but now fat Sam
Whitney, a frequenter of the place, Black Jack, the saloon keeper, and a
couple of soldiers from the fort across the river, were all that
remained with him.
The men outside could be heard saddling up, struggling with their
refractory horses, and calling out to each other; from time to time the
rapidly diminishing sound of galloping hoofs came to the ears of the
silent men who for the moment remained motionless.
The sheriff was planning his defence against the expected Indian attack,
and the men who were with him, without a word, waited for the
announcement of his next move. It was Jim Mackenzie, and they put
themselves in his hands with blind confidence.
Bismarck was a frontier town in the full sense of the word. A collection
of rude houses, more or less strongly built of logs and dried mud,
straggled along the single street. Placed at the intersection of the
expected railroad and the Missouri River, a town of considerable size
was mapped and many streets with high-sounding names were projected. But
only Main Street was actually laid out. The houses, which their
inhabitants called shacks, were built on the north side of the street
facing the south, in obedience to the natural law of cold climates, so
Bismarck boasted really of but half a street, and that a short one.
Fort Abraham Lincoln, situated directly across the river, was supposed
to afford protection to the settlers from the Indian marauders, but the
hardy, self-reliant frontiersmen were generally able to take care of
themselves. Not many of the inhabitants stayed the year round. The few
who did remain through all seasons--the saloon keepers, horseshoers,
stable keepers, and the three families--dwelt in the more pretentious
houses. The other residences were mere temporary shelters, which their
owners would not have considered worth fitting up had they been able to
do so.
Around the outskirts of the town were always a number of freight
outfits, and this night was no exception to the general rule. The
cumbrous wagons were drawn in a circle, harnesses lying in a seemingly
hopeless tangle on the wagon tongues, and the tents were pitched against
their sides or canvas lean-to's were rigged up. A number of greasy men
lounged around the campfires, some sleeping, some re-braiding whips,
some mending harness or chopping out new brake blocks. The work stock
were grazing at a little distance where the grass was good, guarded by
an armed herder.
To these freighters' camps came the sheriff himself to warn them of the
impending danger. Immediately all was activity. The work stock were
brought, and, in a trice, harnessed to the heavy wagons. The mules were
urged forward with shouts and cracking of whips, and soon the whole
outfit was on its way to form a cordon around the town, or, at least, on
the side that was most likely to be attacked.
Mackenzie rode with the wagon-train for a short distance, then branched
off after giving some final orders, or rather suggestions, for any
emergency that might arise.
"So long," he said.
"So long," said the driver of the leading team. (Whether a man was
leaving for a trip across the street or across the continent, the
parting words were, invariably, "So long.")
Mackenzie went on his way, skirting the town, keeping his eyes and ears
wide open. There was nothing within hearing to indicate that the
settlement was in danger of attack from the dreaded Indian. The
teamsters could still be heard shouting to their mules, and an
occasional creaking squeak from the wagons broke the stillness. The
sheriff listened in vain for more ominous sounds.
"The reds are still pretty far off, or they are keeping mighty dark," he
said to himself, as he put spurs to his horse and galloped towards one
of the better-looking houses that stood on a little rise some distance
from the Main Street settlement. Messengers had been sent in every
direction, to warn sleeping citizens, and all had been arranged for
except this household, one of the three families of the town.
Mackenzie rode up to the door and, without dismounting, knocked.
In an instant there was a sound of bustling, for the Westerner sleeps
with one eye open, and is ready at a moment's notice for anything that
may occur.
"Who's there?" shouted a voice.
"Mackenzie," answered the sheriff.
Almost at the same moment the door opened, and a man stepped out.
"Hello, Worth!" said the sheriff. "You'd better bring the wife and
children further down. Harry Hodson just came down the trail and reports
a big bunch of Indians a few miles up, and----"
But Worth did not wait to hear any more.
"John," Worth shouted back into his shack; "you and Ben help your mother
pack up the bedding and take care of the baby. We've got to be lively.
You know what to do. You see, Mac," he said, turning to the horseman, "I
thought I might as well get things started while you were telling me
about these hostiles."
"All right," said the sheriff. "Good scheme. You might as well saddle up
and come along with me so you can find a place beforehand for the wife
and kids."
In a few minutes both men were on their way to the centre of the town:
Mackenzie, to send out his pickets and guards, and to arrange the
placing of stock and wagons; Worth, to find a temporary shelter for his
family. The boys, John and Ben, were left behind to look after the home,
pack up the goods, catch and saddle the horses. It was a seemingly big
task for boys of ten and twelve, but from the time these boys were able
to walk they--in common with other boys of the frontier--had to look out
largely for themselves. They were strong, sturdy little chaps. John, the
elder, was his father's right-hand man, and when Mr. Worth was away on
one of his frequent freighting trips, John was often called upon to take
care of the family in emergencies much like the present one.
In this frontier town, the reports of bands of hostile Indians coming to
raid and kill were not uncommon. The single man, active, mounted, armed
with weapons as familiar to him as his right hand, had no fear of not
being able to outwit or escape the enemy, wily as the redskins were. In
fact, the Indians themselves were well aware of the ability of the
plainsmen to cope with them when unhampered by women and children, so
they practically never began hostilities until they could get their
white enemies at a disadvantage. The few families were, therefore, their
especial point of attack. It was their helplessness that tempted the
onslaught and aroused the savage instincts of these marauders. When the
head of the family, the bread winner, was away, the dread of these
fearful, relentless attacks on his helpless ones abode with him always.
The mother and children, left at home, lived always under the shadow of
the same fear.
John and his brother, therefore, fully understood the danger and the
need for speedy and careful preparation. They had often, at the warning
of the hostiles' approach, helped their mother make a fort of the solid
log house by piling up the scanty furniture and bedding against the
doors and windows, leaving only loopholes for their rifles; and though
the present situation was one that would make ordinary boys useless
through fear, John and Ben, on the contrary, were too busy to worry;
they knew exactly what was to be done, and in their sturdy, independent
way went to work to do it.
"Say, Ben," said John, as they went toward the corral (the circular
inclosure in which the saddle horses were kept), "I'll bet it's just
those Indians we saw across the river, day before yesterday, while we
were hunting Gannons' horses. There was a lot of squaws in that bunch,
do you remember?"
"That's right," assented Ben; "and I'll bet that some of Gannons' horses
were in that lot of Indian ponies. If it was ten dollars reward instead
of five, it might have been worth while to run the risk of trying to
find out; but five dollars is too little to go fooling around a strange
Indian's camp for."
The talk was ended by their arrival at the corral and the subsequent
busy time catching and bridling of the horses. The ponies were then led
to the door, where they were saddled. As they were cinching them up--as
the tightening of the girths is called--Mr. Worth returned. In a few
minutes the whole family were on their way to the Sebells', one of the
other Bismarck families who lived on Main Street.
In town they found all activity. Horsemen were galloping to and fro,
cattle, horses, and mules dashed in and out, wagons driven at full speed
crossed and recrossed the dusty street. As soon as they were installed
at their new-found shelter and their household goods disposed of, John
went with his father to get in the extra stock of horses and mules, for,
next to his family, these are the freighter's chief care.
They found their stock together, as was expected, for animals,
particularly horses, that come from the same place, always stay
together. This instinct made it much easier for the herder to gather his
own, when there were many animals belonging to different outfits on a
common grazing ground. The Worth stock was promptly driven inside the
now almost complete circle of wagons, and there tied.
A group of men were busy piling up boxes, barrels, and bales, taken from
the freighters' wagons, into the semblance of breastworks. As John and
his father approached, the sheriff came forward and joined them.
"Family all right, Worth?" he asked, kindly. "I sent up a couple of men
to help you and they reported that your shack was deserted and the place
locked up for keeps. You didn't waste any time."
"That was good of you, Mac," said Mr. Worth, holding out his hand. "How
you're able to think of so many things at once, beats me. Yes, we got
out in pretty quick shape; you see my boys, Johnny here and Ben, are
first-rate hands to depend on in an emergency. They did pretty near the
whole thing to-night. By the way, the boys were hunting horses up the
river day before yesterday, and saw quite a large bunch of Indians in
the brush below Harry Hodson's."
[Illustration: MOUNTING A BUCKING BRONCHO.]
"Why didn't you say something about this before?" interrupted the
sheriff, turning to John.
"Ben and I have seen plenty of Indians," said John, eagerly. "There were
a lot of squaws in this bunch, so I didn't believe they were a war
party. We didn't think anything more about them until this scare came up
to-night."
"Well, you have got a good head on you, young man. I don't know but you
are right, and this may be a false alarm. Still Hodson generally knows
what he's talking about." The sheriff was speaking more to himself than
to his hearers. "I'm glad we've got a lot of first-rate scrappers with
us; I guess the reds would think twice if they knew what they were
running up against."
All was now comparatively quiet. The work and strain of preparation was
succeeded by a time of waiting, a period of suspense that was, perhaps,
harder to bear than the first shock of the unpleasant news.
John and his father returned to their temporary home to calm the
mother's fears. Mrs. Worth had the family rifle ready, and Ben had
polished and oiled every cartridge in the belt, so that they would slip
in without jamming. Mr. Worth shouldered the gun and went out, leaving
the boys with their mother. Though all was now quiet and his mother and
brother were asleep, John could not close his eyes. He understood, as
his younger brother could not, the danger that menaced the household and
the town. Death, swift, by knife or bullet, or slow through torture, was
sure to come if that band of Indians got inside the inclosure. He had
heard gruesome tales describing the treatment that the savages meted out
to their prisoners and the horror of it would not leave him. At last he
could stand it no longer. Quickly he rose from the heap of bedding and
stole to the door. He was fully dressed, and his little six-shooter
still slung on his left hip where he had buckled it when the sheriff
first knocked at the home shack.
All was still outside, except for the occasional stamping of a pony or
the distant wail of a coyote. Pickets were posted just over the rise to
the north of the town, from which direction the attack was expected.
They were to give warning of the approach of the Indians by a rifle
shot.
Suddenly there was borne on the breeze to the waiting men the sound of
galloping horses. Louder it grew, then fainter; then again still louder.
So the sound wavered, but ever came nearer.
The watchers sprang to their feet, rifles ready, eyes gleaming.
"Steady, boys," said the calm voice of Mackenzie. "Wait a bit."
Still the thumping of many hoofs approached nearer.
What had become of the pickets? Had they been all killed with the
enemy's noiseless arrows? Or had they been lured away beyond hearing and
shot?
Daylight was breaking; the enemy could now be seen, that was one
comfort. And as they stood, ears alert, eyes strained, their nerves
keyed up to the tensest pitch, awaiting the onslaught, that ominous
noise of hoof-beats came ever nearer, nearer, nearer.
Suddenly a horse's head appeared above the brow of the hill, then
another and another until quite a score or more were in plain view. They
dashed down the incline toward the corral of wagons. But they were all
riderless! Presently two riders appeared. They shouted a greeting as
they came down the hill and explained that they were of the N bar N
outfit (that is to say, their brand bore these marks:) [Symbol:
N over N with line between].
A space was hastily cleared between the wagons to allow these newcomers'
horses to enter the inclosure; but it was too late; the bunch parted,
turning to right and left. The two herders also separated in pursuit,
each following a bunch.
Immediate danger over, the waiting men relaxed their extra vigilance,
and all hands watched the efforts of the two herders in their vain
attempts to head off their charges. The sheriff was just saying, "I wish
some of you fellows would help round up that bunch; we want to get them
all in before the hostiles show up," when a third horseman appeared,
riding like the wind.
"Say, that chap has got a fresh horse," said "Casino," one of the
freighters.
The new arrival, after a headlong dash, regardless of ditches, brush,
and badger holes, succeeded in rounding up the frightened horses, and
with the help of the herder, drove them into camp. A similar performance
soon brought in the other bunch.
As the new rider trotted in through the gap, some one shouted: "What'll
you take for that horse? He's a regular whirlwind."
"Yes," said one of the herders, "he's a dandy, isn't he? My stock would
have got away if Johnny Worth hadn't come out on Baldy."
"So it's Johnny Worth, eh!" said Bill Smith. "Good work, kid."
"Oh!" said Johnny, "they're only worn-out, winded plugs; they were easy
for Baldy. He was saddled and all ready," the boy added in explanation.
"Well done, Johnny," said the sheriff, who had once before that night
praised the boy's pluck. Then, turning to the group about him, "Some of
you boys had better get breakfast," said he; "there's no telling when
that war party may turn up, and you must eat now when you have the
chance."