young man for Tiburcio. The latter was the practical hunter, which
actual experience only can produce. He could foretell the coming of a
norther twenty-four hours in advance. Just which course deer would
graze he could predict by the quarter of the wind. In woodcraft he was
a trustworthy though unquoted authority. His young patron often showed
him his watch and explained how it measured time, but he had no use for
it. He could tell nearly enough when it was noon, and if the stars were
shining he knew midnight within a few minutes. This he had learned when
a shepherd. He could track a wounded deer for miles, when another could
not see a trace of where the animal had passed. He could recognize the
footprint of his favorite saddle pony among a thousand others. How he
did these things he did not know himself. These companions were
graduates of different schools, extremes of different nationalities.
Yet Alexander Wells had no desire to elevate the old hunter to his own
standard, preferring to sit at his feet.
But finally the appearance of blades of grass and early flowers warned
them that winter was gone and that spring was at hand. Their
occupation, therefore, was at an end. Now how to satisfy the folks at
home and get a further extension of time was the truant’s supreme
object. While he always professed obedience to parental demands, yet
rebellion was brewing, for he did not want to go East—not just yet.
Imperative orders to return were artfully parried. Finally remittances
were withheld, but he had no use for money. Coercion was bad policy to
use in his case. Thus a third and a fourth winter passed, and the young
hunter was enjoying life on the Salado, where questions of state and
nation did not bother him.
But this existence had an end. One day in the spring a conveyance drove
up to the cabin, and an elderly, well-dressed woman alighted. With the
assistance of her driver she ran the gauntlet of dogs and reached the
cabin door, which was open. There, sitting inside on a dry cow-skin
which was spread on the clay floor, was the object of her visit,
surrounded by a group of Mexican companions, playing a game called
monte. The absorbing interest taken in the cards had prevented the
inmates of the jacal from noticing the lady’s approach until she stood
opposite the door. On the appearance of a woman, the game instantly
ceased. Recognition was mutual, but neither mother nor son spoke a
word. Her eye took in the surroundings at a glance. Finally she spoke
with a half-concealed imperiousness of tone, though her voice was quiet
and kindly.
“Alexander, if you wish to see your mother, come to San Antonio, won’t
you, please?” and turning, she retraced her steps toward the carriage.
Her son arose from his squatting posture, hitching up one side of his
trousers, then the other, for he was suspenderless, and following at a
distance, scratching his head and hitching his trousers alternately, he
at last managed to say, “Ah, well—why—if you can wait a few moments
till I change my clothes, I’ll—I’ll go with you right now.”
This being consented to, he returned to the cabin, made the necessary
change, and stood before them a picture of health, bewhiskered and
bronzed like a pirate. As he was halfway to the vehicle, he turned
back, and taking the old black hands of Tiburcio in his own, said in
good Spanish, though there was a huskiness in his voice, “That lady is
my mother. I may never see you again. I don’t think I will. You may
have for your own everything I leave.”
There were tears in the old hunter’s eyes as he relinquished young
Wells’s hands and watched him fade from his sight. His mother, unable
to live longer without him, had made the trip from New York, and now
that she had him in her possession there was no escape. They took the
first stage out of the village that night on their return trip for New
York State.
But the mother’s victory was short-lived and barren. Within three years
after the son’s return, he failed in two business enterprises in which
his father started him. Nothing discouraged, his parents offered him a
third opportunity, it containing, however, a marriage condition. But
the voice of a siren, singing of flowery prairies and pecan groves on
the Salado, in which could be heard the music of hounds and the
clattering of horses’ hoofs at full speed following, filled every niche
and corner of his heart, and he balked at the marriage offer.
When the son had passed his thirtieth year, his parents became resigned
and gave their consent to his return to Texas. Long before parental
consent was finally obtained, it was evident to his many friends that
the West had completely won him; and once the desire of his heart was
secured, the languid son beamed with energy in outfitting for his
return. He wrung the hands of old friends with a new grip, and with
boyish enthusiasm announced his early departure.
On the morning of leaving, quite a crowd of friends and relatives
gathered at the depot to see him off. But when a former college chum
attempted to remonstrate with him on the social sacrifice which he was
making, he turned to the group of friends, and smilingly said, “That’s
all right. You are honest in thinking that New York is God’s country.
But out there in Texas also is, for it is just as God made it. Why, I’m
going to start a cattle ranch as soon as I get there and go back to
nature. Don’t pity me. Rather let me pity you, who think, act, and look
as if turned out of the same mill. Any social sacrifices which I make
in leaving here will be repaid tenfold by the freedom and advantages of
the boundless West.”
VI
THE DOUBLE TRAIL
Early in the summer of ’78 we were rocking along with a herd of Laurel
Leaf cattle, going up the old Chisholm trail in the Indian Territory.
The cattle were in charge of Ike Inks as foreman, and had been sold for
delivery somewhere in the Strip.
There were thirty-one hundred head, straight “twos,” and in the single
ranch brand. We had been out about four months on the trail, and all
felt that a few weeks at the farthest would let us out, for the day
before we had crossed the Cimarron River, ninety miles south of the
state line of Kansas.
The foreman was simply killing time, waiting for orders concerning the
delivery of the cattle. All kinds of jokes were in order, for we all
felt that we would soon be set free. One of our men had been taken
sick, as we crossed Red River into the Nations, and not wanting to
cross this Indian country short-handed, Inks had picked up a young
fellow who evidently had never been over the trail before.
He gave the outfit his correct name, on joining us, but it proved
unpronounceable, and for convenience some one rechristened him Lucy, as
he had quite a feminine appearance. He was anxious to learn, and was in
evidence in everything that went on.
The trail from the Cimarron to Little Turkey Creek, where we were now
camped, had originally been to the east of the present one, skirting a
black-jack country. After being used several years it had been
abandoned, being sandy, and the new route followed up the bottoms of
Big Turkey, since it was firmer soil, affording better footing to
cattle. These two trails came together again at Little Turkey. At no
place were they over two or three miles apart, and from where they
separated to where they came together again was about seven miles.
It troubled Lucy not to know why this was thus. Why did these routes
separate and come together again? He was fruitful with inquiries as to
where this trail or that road led. The boss-man had a vein of humor in
his make-up, though it was not visible; so he told the young man that
he did not know, as he had been over this route but once before, but he
thought that Stubb, who was then on herd, could tell him how it was; he
had been over the trail every year since it was laid out. This was
sufficient to secure Stubb an interview, as soon as he was relieved
from duty and had returned to the wagon. So Ike posted one of the men
who was next on guard to tell Stubb what to expect, and to be sure to
tell it to him scary.
A brief description of Stubb necessarily intrudes, though this nickname
describes the man. Extremely short in stature, he was inclined to be
fleshy. In fact, a rear view of Stubb looked as though some one had
hollowed out a place to set his head between his ample shoulders. But a
front view revealed a face like a full moon. In disposition he was very
amiable. His laugh was enough to drive away the worst case of the
blues. It bubbled up from some inward source and seemed perennial. His
worst fault was his bar-room astronomy. If there was any one thing that
he shone in, it was rustling coffin varnish during the early
prohibition days along the Kansas border. His patronage was limited
only by his income, coupled with what credit he enjoyed.
Once, about midnight, he tried to arouse a drug clerk who slept in the
store, and as he had worked this racket before, he coppered the play to
repeat. So he tapped gently on the window at the rear where the clerk
slept, calling him by name. This he repeated any number of times.
Finally, he threatened to have a fit; even this did not work to his
advantage. Then he pretended to be very angry, but there was no
response. After fifteen minutes had been fruitlessly spent, he went
back to the window, tapped on it once more, saying, “Lon, lie still,
you little son-of-a-sheep-thief,” which may not be what he said, and
walked away. A party who had forgotten his name was once inquiring for
him, describing him thus, “He’s a little short, fat fellow, sits around
the Maverick Hotel, talks cattle talk, and punishes a power of
whiskey.”
So before Stubb had even time to unsaddle his horse, he was approached
to know the history of these two trails.
“Well,” said Stubb somewhat hesitatingly, “I never like to refer to it.
You see, I killed a man the day that right-hand trail was made: I’ll
tell you about it some other time.”
“But why not now?” said Lucy, his curiosity aroused, as keen as a
woman’s.
“Some other day,” said Stubb. “But did you notice those three graves on
the last ridge of sand-hills to the right as we came out of the
Cimarron bottoms yesterday? You did? Their tenants were killed over
that trail; you see now why I hate to refer to it, don’t you? I was
afraid to go back to Texas for three years afterward.”
“But why not tell me?” said the young man.
“Oh,” said Stubb, as he knelt down to put a hobble on his horse, “it
would injure my reputation as a peaceable citizen, and I don’t mind
telling you that I expect to marry soon.”
Having worked up the proper interest in his listener, besides exacting
a promise that he would not repeat the story where it might do injury
to him, he dragged his saddle up to the camp-fire. Making a comfortable
seat with it, he riveted his gaze on the fire, and with a splendid
sang-froid reluctantly told the history of the double trail.
“You see,” began Stubb, “the Chisholm route had been used more or less
for ten years. This right-hand trail was made in ’73. I bossed that
year from Van Zandt County, for old Andy Erath, who, by the way, was a
dead square cowman with not a hide-bound idea in his make-up. Son, it
was a pleasure to know old Andy. You can tell he was a good man, for if
he ever got a drink too much, though he would never mention her
otherwise, he always praised his wife. I’ve been with him up beyond the
Yellowstone, two thousand miles from home, and you always knew when the
old man was primed. He would praise his wife, and would call on us boys
to confirm the fact that Mary, his wife, was a good woman.
“That year we had the better of twenty-nine hundred head, all steer
cattle, threes and up, a likely bunch, better than these we are
shadowing now. You see, my people are not driving this year, which is
the reason that I am making a common hand with Inks. If I was to lay
off a season, or go to the seacoast, I might forget the way. In those
days I always hired my own men. The year that this right-hand trail was
made, I had an outfit of men who would rather fight than eat; in fact,
I selected them on account of their special fitness in the use of
firearms. Why, Inks here couldn’t have cooked for my outfit that
season, let alone rode. There was no particular incident worth
mentioning till we struck Red River, where we overtook five or six
herds that were laying over on account of a freshet in the river. I
wouldn’t have a man those days who was not as good in the water as out.
When I rode up to the river, one or two of my men were with me. It
looked red and muddy and rolled just a trifle, but I ordered one of the
boys to hit it on his horse, to see what it was like. Well, he never
wet the seat of his saddle going or coming, though his horse was in
swimming water good sixty yards. All the other bosses rode up, and each
one examined his peg to see if the rise was falling. One fellow named
Bob Brown, boss-man for John Blocker, asked me what I thought about the
crossing. I said to him, ‘If this ferryman can cross our wagon for me,
and you fellows will open out a little and let me in, I’ll show you all
a crossing, and it’ll be no miracle either.’
“Well, the ferryman said he’d set the wagon over, so the men went back
to bring up the herd. They were delayed some little time, changing to
their swimming horses. It was nearly an hour before the herd came up,
the others opening out, so as to give us a clear field, in case of a
mill or balk. I never had to give an order; my boys knew just what to
do. Why, there’s men in this outfit right now that couldn’t have
greased my wagon that year.
“Well, the men on the points brought the herd to the water with a good
head on, and before the leaders knew it, they were halfway across the
channel, swimming like fish. The swing-men fed them in, free and
plenty. Most of my outfit took to the water, and kept the cattle from
drifting downstream. The boys from the other herds—good men, too—kept
shooting them into the water, and inside fifteen minutes’ time we were
in the big Injun Territory. After crossing the saddle stock and the
wagon, I swam my horse back to the Texas side. I wanted to eat dinner
with Blocker’s man, just to see how they fed. Might want to work for
him some time, you see. I pretended that I’d help him over if he wanted
to cross, but he said his dogies could never breast that water. I
remarked to him at dinner, ‘You’re feeding a mite better this year,
ain’t you?’ ‘Not that I can notice,’ he replied, as the cook handed him
a tin plate heaping with navy beans, ‘and I’m eating rather regular
with the wagon, too.’ I killed time around for a while, and then we
rode down to the river together. The cattle had tramped out his peg, so
after setting a new one, and pow-wowing around, I told him good-by and
said to him, ‘Bob, old man, when I hit Dodge, I’ll take a drink and
think of you back here on the trail, and regret that you are not with
me, so as to make it two-handed.’ We said our ‘so-longs’ to each other,
and I gave the gray his head and he took the water like a duck. He
could outswim any horse I ever saw, but I drowned him in the Washita
two weeks later. Yes, tangled his feet in some vines in a sunken
treetop, and the poor fellow’s light went out. My own candle came near
being snuffed. I never felt so bad over a little thing since I burned
my new red topboots when I was a kid, as in drownding that horse.
“There was nothing else worth mentioning until we struck the Cimarron
back here, where we overtook a herd of Chisholm’s that had come in from
the east. They had crossed through the Arbuckle Mountains—came in over
the old Whiskey Trail. Here was another herd waterbound, and the
boss-man was as important as a hen with one chicken. He told me that
the river wouldn’t be fordable for a week; wanted me to fall back at
least five miles; wanted all this river bottom for his cattle; said he
didn’t need any help to cross his herd, though he thanked me for the
offer with an air of contempt. I informed him that our cattle were sold
for delivery on the North Platte, and that we wanted to go through on
time. I assured him if he would drop his cattle a mile down the river,
it would give us plenty of room. I told him plainly that our cattle,
horses, and men could all swim, and that we never let a little thing
like swimming water stop us.
“No! No! he couldn’t do that; we might as well fall back and take our
turn. ‘Oh, well,’ said I, ‘if you want to act contrary about it, I’ll
go up to the King-Fisher crossing, only three miles above here. I’ve
almost got time to cross yet this evening.’
“Then he wilted and inquired, ‘Do you think I can cross if it swims
them any?’
“‘I’m not doing your thinking, sir,’ I answered, ‘but I’ll bring up
eight or nine good men and help you rather than make a six-mile elbow.’
I said this with some spirit and gave him a mean look.
“‘All right,’ said he, ‘bring up your boys, say eight o’clock, and we
will try the ford. Let me add right here,’ he continued, ‘and I’m a
stranger to you, young man, but my outfit don’t take anybody’s slack,
and as I am older than you, let me give you this little bit of advice:
when you bring your men here in the morning, don’t let them whirl too
big a loop, or drag their ropes looking for trouble, for I’ve got
fellows with me that don’t turn out of the trail for anybody.’
“‘All right, sir,’ I said. ‘Really, I’m glad to hear that you have some
good men, still I’m pained to find them on the wrong side of the river
for travelers. But I’ll be here in the morning,’ I called back as I
rode away. So telling my boys that we were likely to have some fun in
the morning, and what to expect, I gave it no further attention. When
we were catching up our horses next morning for the day, I ordered two
of my lads on herd, which was a surprise to them, as they were both
handy with a gun. I explained it to them all,—that we wished to avoid
trouble, but if it came up unavoidable, to overlook no bets—to copper
every play as it fell.
“We got to the river too early to suit Chisholm’s boss-man. He seemed
to think that his cattle would take the water better about ten o’clock.
To kill time my boys rode across and back several times to see what the
water was like. ‘Well, any one that would let as little swimming water
as that stop them must be a heap sight sorry outfit,’ remarked one-eyed
Jim Reed, as he rode out of the river, dismounting to set his saddle
forward and tighten his cinches, not noticing that this foreman heard
him. I rode around and gave him a look, and he looked up at me and
muttered, ‘Scuse me, boss, I plumb forgot!’ Then I rode back and
apologized to this boss-man: ‘Don’t pay any attention to my boys; they
are just showing off, and are a trifle windy this morning.’
“‘That’s all right,’ he retorted, ‘but don’t forget what I told you
yesterday, and let it be enough said.’
“‘Well, let’s put the cattle in,’ I urged, seeing that he was getting
hot under the collar. ‘We’re burning daylight, pardner.’
“‘Well, I’m going to cross my wagon first,’ said he.
“‘That’s a good idea,’ I answered. ‘Bring her up.’ Their cook seemed to
have a little sense, for he brought up his wagon in good shape. We tied
some guy ropes to the upper side, and taking long ropes from the end of
the tongue to the pommels of our saddles, the ease with which we set
that commissary over didn’t trouble any one but the boss-man, whose
orders were not very distinct from the distance between banks. It was a
good hour then before he would bring up his cattle. The main trouble
seemed to be to devise means to keep their guns and cartridges dry, as
though that was more important than getting the whole herd of nearly
thirty-five hundred cattle over. We gave them a clean cloth until they
needed us, but as they came up we divided out and were ready to give
the lead a good push. If a cow changed his mind about taking a swim
that morning, he changed it right back and took it. For in less than
twenty minutes’ time they were all over, much to the surprise of the
boss and his men; besides, their weapons were quite dry; just the
splash had wet them.
“I told the boss that we would not need any help to cross ours, but to
keep well out of our way, as we would try and cross by noon, which
ought to give him a good five-mile start. Well, we crossed and nooned,
lying around on purpose to give them a good lead, and when we hit the
trail back in these sand-hills, there he was, not a mile ahead, and you
can see there was no chance to get around. I intended to take the Dodge
trail, from this creek where we are now, but there we were, blocked in!
I was getting a trifle wolfish over the way they were acting, so I rode
forward to see what the trouble was.
“‘Oh, I’m in no hurry. You’re driving too fast. This is your first
trip, isn’t it?’ he inquired, as he felt of a pair of checked pants
drying on the wagon wheel.
“‘Don’t you let any idea like that disturb your Christian spirit, old
man,’ I replied with some resentment. ‘But if you think I am driving
too fast, you might suggest some creek where I could delude myself with
the idea, for a week or so, that it was not fordable.’
“Assuming an air of superiority he observed, ‘You seem to have forgot
what I said to you yesterday.’
“‘No, I haven’t,’ I answered, ‘but are you going to stay all night
here?’
“‘I certainly am, if that’s any satisfaction to you,’ he answered.
“I got off my horse and asked him for a match, though I had plenty in
my pocket, to light a cigarette which I had rolled during the
conversation. I had no gun on, having left mine in our wagon, but
fancied I’d stir him up and see how bad he really was. I thought it
best to stroke him with and against the fur, try and keep on neutral
ground, so I said,—
“‘You ain’t figuring none that in case of a run to-night we’re a trifle
close together for cow-herds. Besides, my men on a guard last night
heard gray wolves in these sand-hills. They are liable to show up
to-night. Didn’t I notice some young calves among your cattle this
morning? Young calves, you know, make larruping fine eating for grays.’
“‘Now, look here, Shorty,’ he said in a patronizing tone, as though he
might let a little of his superior cow-sense shine in on my darkened
intellect, ‘I haven’t asked you to crowd up here on me. You are
perfectly at liberty to drop back to your heart’s content. If wolves
bother us to-night, you stay in your blankets snug and warm, and
pleasant dreams of old sweethearts on the Trinity to you. We won’t need
you. We’ll try and worry along without you.’
“Two or three of his men laughed gruffly at these remarks, and threw
leer-eyed looks at me. I asked one who seemed bad, what calibre his gun
was. ‘Forty-five ha’r trigger,’ he answered. I nosed around over their
plunder purpose. They had things drying around like Bannock squaws
jerking venison.
“When I got on my horse, I said to the boss, ‘I want to pass your
outfit in the morning, as you are in no hurry and I am.’
“‘That will depend,’ said he.
“‘Depend on what?’ I asked.
“‘Depend on whether we are willing to let you,’ he snarled.
“I gave him as mean a look as I could command and said tauntingly,
‘Now, look here, old girl: there’s no occasion for you to tear your
clothes with me this way. Besides, I sometimes get on the prod myself,
and when I do, I don’t bar no man, Jew nor Gentile, horse, mare or
gelding. You may think different, but I’m not afraid of any man in your
outfit, from the gimlet to the big auger. I’ve tried to treat you
white, but I see I’ve failed. Now I want to give it out to you straight
and cold, that I’ll pass you to-morrow, or mix two herds trying. Think
it over to-night and nominate your choice—be a gentleman or a hog. Let
your own sweet will determine which.’