wanted to, but there were no further remarks. My men were all hopping
mad when I told them, but I promised them that to-morrow we would fix
them plenty or use up our supply of cartridges if necessary. We dropped
back a mile off the trail and camped for the night. Early the next
morning I sent one of my boys out on the highest sand dune to Injun
around and see what they were doing. After being gone for an hour he
came back and said they had thrown their cattle off the bed-ground up
the trail, and were pottering around like as they aimed to move.
Breakfast over, I sent him back again to make sure, for I wanted yet to
avoid trouble if they didn’t draw it on. It was another hour before he
gave us the signal to come on. We were nicely strung out where you saw
those graves on that last ridge of sand-hills, when there they were
about a mile ahead of us, moseying along. This side of Chapman’s, the
Indian trader’s store, the old route turns to the right and follows up
this black-jack ridge. We kept up close, and just as soon as they
turned in to the right,—the only trail there was then,—we threw off the
course and came straight ahead, cross-country style, same route we came
over to-day, except there was no trail there; we had to make a new one.
“Now they watched us a plenty, but it seemed they couldn’t make out our
game. When we pulled up even with them, half a mile apart, they tumbled
that my bluff of the day before was due to take effect without further
notice. Then they began to circle and ride around, and one fellow went
back, only hitting the high places, to their wagon and saddle horses,
and they were brought up on a trot. We were by this time three quarters
of a mile apart, when the boss of their outfit was noticed riding out
toward us. Calling one of my men, we rode out and met him halfway.
‘Young man, do you know just what you are trying to do?’ he asked.
“‘I think I do. You and myself as cowmen don’t pace in the same class,
as you will see, if you will only watch the smoke of our tepee. Watch
us close, and I’ll pass you between here and the next water.’
“‘We will see you in hell first!’ he said, as he whirled his horse and
galloped back to his men. The race was on in a brisk walk. His wagon,
we noticed, cut in between the herds, until it reached the lead of his
cattle, when it halted suddenly, and we noticed that they were cutting
off a dry cowskin that swung under the wagon. At the same time two of
his men cut out a wild steer, and as he ran near their wagon one of
them roped and the other heeled him. It was neatly done. I called Big
Dick, my boss roper, and told him what I suspected,—that they were
going to try and stampede us with a dry cowskin tied to that steer’s
tail they had down. As they let him up, it was clear I had called the
turn, as they headed him for our herd, the flint thumping at his heels.
Dick rode out in a lope, and I signaled for my crowd to come on and we
would back Dick’s play. As we rode out together, I said to my boys,
‘The stuff’s off, fellows! Shoot, and shoot to hurt!’
“It seemed their whole outfit was driving that one steer, and turning
the others loose to graze. Dick never changed the course of that steer,
but let him head for ours, and as they met and passed, he turned his
horse and rode onto him as though he was a post driven in the ground.
Whirling a loop big enough to take in a yoke of oxen, he dropped it
over his off fore shoulder, took up his slack rope, and when that steer
went to the end of the rope, he was thrown in the air and came down on
his head with a broken neck. Dick shook the rope off the dead steer’s
forelegs without dismounting, and was just beginning to coil his rope
when those varmints made a dash at him, shooting and yelling.
“That called for a counter play on our part, except our aim was low,
for if we didn’t get a man, we were sure to leave one afoot. Just for a
minute the air was full of smoke. Two horses on our side went down
before you could say ‘Jack Robinson,’ but the men were unhurt, and soon
flattened themselves on the ground Indian fashion, and burnt the grass
in a half-circle in front of them. When everybody had emptied his gun,
each outfit broke back to its wagon to reload. Two of my men came back
afoot, each claiming that he had got his man all right, all right. We
were no men shy, which was lucky. Filling our guns with cartridges out
of our belts, we rode out to reconnoitre and try and get the boys’
saddles.
“The first swell of the ground showed us the field. There were the dead
steer, and five or six horses scattered around likewise, but the grass
was too high to show the men that we felt were there. As the opposition
was keeping close to their wagon, we rode up to the scene of carnage.
While some of the boys were getting the saddles off the dead horses, we
found three men taking their last nap in the grass. I recognized them
as the boss-man, the fellow with the ha’r-trigger gun, and a fool kid
that had two guns on him when we were crossing their cattle the day
before. One gun wasn’t plenty to do the fighting he was hankering for;
he had about as much use for two guns as a toad has for a stinger.
“The boys got the saddles off the dead horses, and went flying back to
our men afoot, and then rejoined us. The fight seemed over, or there
was some hitch in the programme, for we could see them hovering near
their wagon, tearing up white biled shirts out of a trunk and bandaging
up arms and legs, that they hadn’t figured on any. Our herd had been
overlooked during the scrimmage, and had scattered so that I had to
send one man and the horse wrangler to round them in. We had ten men
left, and it was beginning to look as though hostilities had ceased by
mutual consent. You can see, son, we didn’t bring it on. We turned over
the dead steer, and he proved to be a stray; at least he hadn’t their
road brand on. One-eyed Jim said the ranch brand belonged in San Saba
County; he knew it well, the X—2. Well, it wasn’t long until our men
afoot got a remount and only two horses shy on the first round. We
could stand another on the same terms in case they attacked us. We rode
out on a little hill about a quarter-mile from their wagon, scattering
out so as not to give them a pot shot, in case they wanted to renew the
unpleasantness.
“When they saw us there, one fellow started toward us, waving his
handkerchief. We began speculating which one it was, but soon made him
out to be the cook; his occupation kept him out of the first round.
When he came within a hundred yards, I rode out and met him. He offered
me his hand and said, ‘We are in a bad fix. Two of our crowd have bad
flesh wounds. Do you suppose we could get any whiskey back at this
Indian trader’s store?’
“‘If there is any man in this territory can get any I can if they have
it,’ I told him. ‘Besides, if your lay-out has had all the satisfaction
fighting they want, we’ll turn to and give you a lift. It seems like
you all have some dead men over back here. They will have to be
planted. So if your outfit feel as though you had your belly-full of
fighting for the present, consider us at your service. You’re the cook,
ain’t you?’
“‘Yes, sir,’ he answered. ‘Are all three dead?’ he then inquired.
“‘Dead as heck,’ I told him.
“‘Well, we are certainly in a bad box,’ said he meditatingly. ‘But
won’t you all ride over to our wagon with me? I think our fellows are
pacified for the present.’
“I motioned to our crowd, and we all rode over to their wagon with him.
There wasn’t a gun in sight. The ragged edge of despair don’t describe
them. I made them a little talk; told them that their boss had cashed
in, back over the hill; also if there was any segundo in their outfit,
the position of big augur was open to him, and we were at his service.
“There wasn’t a man among them that had any sense left but the cook. He
told me to take charge of the killed, and if I could rustle a little
whiskey to do so. So I told the cook to empty out his wagon, and we
would take the dead ones back, make boxes for them, and bury them at
the store. Then I sent three of my men back to the store to have the
boxes ready and dig the graves. Before these three rode away, I said,
aside to Jim, who was one of them, ‘Don’t bother about any whiskey;
branch water is plenty nourishing for the wounded. It would be a sin
and shame to waste good liquor on plafry like them.’
“The balance of us went over to the field of carnage and stripped the
saddles off their dead horses, and arranged the departed in a row,
covering them with saddle blankets, pending the planting act. I sent
part of my boys with our wagon to look after our own cattle for the
day. It took us all the afternoon to clean up a minute’s work in the
morning.
“I never like to refer to it. Fact was, all the boys felt gloomy for
weeks, but there was no avoiding it. Two months later, we met old man
Andy, way up at Fort Laramie on the North Platte. He was tickled to
death to meet us all. The herd had come through in fine condition. We
never told him anything about this until the cattle were delivered, and
we were celebrating the success of that drive at a near-by town.
“Big Dick told him about this incident, and the old man feeling his
oats, as he leaned with his back against the bar, said to us with a
noticeable degree of pride, ‘Lads, I’m proud of every one of you. Men
who will fight to protect my interests has my purse at their command.
This year’s drive has been a success. Next year we will drive twice as
many. I want every rascal of you to work for me. You all know how I
mount, feed, and pay my men, and as long as my name is Erath and I own
a cow, you can count on a job with me.’”
“But why did you take them back to the sand-hills to bury them?” cut in
Lucy.
“Oh, that was Big Dick’s idea. He thought the sand would dig easier,
and laziness guided every act of his life. That was five years ago,
son, that this lower trail was made, and for the reasons I have just
given you. No, I can’t tell you any more personal experiences to-night;
I’m too sleepy.”
VII
RANGERING
No State in the Union was ever called upon to meet and deal with the
criminal element as was Texas. She was border territory upon her
admission to the sisterhood of States.
An area equal to four ordinary States, and a climate that permitted of
outdoor life the year round, made it a desirable rendezvous for
criminals. The sparsely settled condition of the country, the flow of
immigration being light until the seventies, was an important factor.
The fugitives from justice of the older States with a common impulse
turned toward this empire of isolation. Europe contributed her quota,
more particularly from the south, bringing with them the Mafia and
vendetta. Once it was the Ultima Thule of the criminal western world.
From the man who came for not building a church to the one who had
taken human life, the catalogue of crime was fully represented.
Humorous writers tell us that it was a breach of good manners to ask a
man his name, or what State he was from, or to examine the brand on his
horse very particularly. It can be safely said that there was a great
amount of truth mingled with the humor. Some of these fugitives from
justice became good citizens, but the majority sooner or later took up
former callings.
Along with this criminal immigration came the sturdy settler, the man
intent on building a home and establishing a fireside. Usually
following lines of longitude, he came from other Southern States. He
also brought with him the fortitude of the pioneer that reclaims the
wilderness and meets any emergency that confronts him. To meet and deal
with this criminal element as a matter of necessity soon became an
important consideration. His only team of horses was frequently stolen.
His cattle ran off their range, their ear-marks altered and brands
changed. Frequently it was a band of neighbors, together in a posse,
who followed and brought to bay the marauders. It was an unlucky moment
for a horse-thief when he was caught in possession of another man’s
horse. The impromptu court of emergency had no sentiment in regard to
passing sentence of death. It was a question of guilt, and when that
was established, Judge Lynch passed sentence.
As the State advanced, the authorities enlisted small companies of men
called Rangers. The citizens’ posse soon gave way to this organized
service. The companies, few in number at first, were gradually
increased until the State had over a dozen companies in the field.
These companies numbered anywhere from ten to sixty men. It can be said
with no discredit to the State that there were never half enough
companies of men for the work before them.
There was a frontier on the south and west of over two thousand miles
to be guarded. A fair specimen of the large things in that State was a
shoe-string congressional district, over eleven hundred miles long. To
the Ranger, then, is all credit due for guarding this western frontier
against the Indians and making life and the possession of property a
possibility. On the south was to be met the bandit, the smuggler, and
every grade of criminal known to the code.
A generation had come and gone before the Ranger’s work was fairly
done. The emergency demanded brave men. They were ready. Not
necessarily born to the soil, as a boy the guardian of the frontier was
expert in the use of firearms, and in the saddle a tireless rider. As
trailers many of them were equal to hounds. In the use of that arbiter
of the frontier, the six-shooter, they were artists. As a class, never
before or since have their equals in the use of that arm come forward
to question this statement.
The average criminal, while familiar with firearms, was as badly
handicapped as woman would be against man. The Ranger had no equal. The
emergency that produced him no longer existing, he will never have a
successor. Any attempt to copy the original would be hopeless
imitation. He was shot at at short range oftener than he received his
monthly wage. He admired the criminal that would fight, and despised
one that would surrender on demand. He would nurse back to life a
dead-game man whom his own shot had brought to earth, and give a coward
the chance to run any time if he so desired.
He was compelled to lead a life in the open and often descend to the
level of the criminal. He had few elements in his makeup, and but a
single purpose; but that one purpose—to rid the State of crime—he
executed with a vengeance. He was poorly paid for the service rendered.
Frequently there was no appropriation with which to pay him; then he
lived by rewards and the friendship of ranchmen.
The Ranger always had a fresh horse at his command,—no one thought of
refusing him this. Rust-proof, rugged, and tireless, he gave the State
protection for life and property. The emergency had produced the man.
“Here, take my glass and throw down on that grove of timber yonder, and
notice if there is any sign of animal life to be seen,” said Sergeant
“Smoky” C——, addressing “Ramrod,” a private in Company X of the Texas
Rangers. The sergeant and the four men had been out on special duty,
and now we had halted after an all night’s ride looking for shade and
water,—the latter especially. We had two prisoners, (horse-thieves),
some extra saddle stock, and three pack mules.
It was an hour after sun-up. We had just come out of the foothills,
where the Brazos has its source, and before us lay the plains, dusty
and arid. This grove of green timber held out a hope that within it
might be found what we wanted. Eyesight is as variable as men, but
Ramrod’s was known to be reliable for five miles with the naked eye,
and ten with the aid of a good glass. He dismounted at the sergeant’s
request, and focused the glass on this oasis, and after sweeping the
field for a minute or so, remarked languidly, “There must be water
there. I can see a band of antelope grazing out from the grove. Hold
your mules! Something is raising a dust over to the south. Good! It’s
cattle coming to the water.”
While he was covering the field with his glass, two of the boys were
threatening with eternal punishment the pack mules, which showed an
energetic determination to lie down and dislodge their packs by
rolling.
“Cut your observations short as possible there, Ramrod, or there will
be re-packing to do. Mula, you hybrid son of your father, don’t you
dare to lie down!”
But Ramrod’s observations were cut short at sight of the cattle, and we
pushed out for the grove, about seven miles distant. As we rode this
short hour’s ride, numerous small bands of antelope were startled, and
in turn stood and gazed at us in bewilderment.
“I’m not tasty,” said Sergeant Smoky, “but I would give the preference
this morning to a breakfast of a well-roasted side of ribs of a nice
yearling venison over the salt hoss that the Lone Star State furnishes
this service. Have we no hunters with us?”
“Let me try,” begged a little man we called “Cushion-foot.” What his
real name was none of us knew. The books, of course, would show some
name, and then you were entitled to a guess. He was as quiet as a
mouse, as reliable as he was quiet, and as noiseless in his movements
as a snake. One of the boys went with him, making quite a detour from
our course, but always remaining in sight. About two miles out from the
grove, we sighted a small band of five or six antelope, who soon took
fright and ran to the nearest elevation. Here they made a stand about
half a mile distant. We signaled to our hunters, who soon spotted them
and dismounted. We could see Cushion sneaking through the short grass
like a coyote, “Conajo” leading the horses, well hidden between them.
We held the antelopes’ attention by riding around in a circle, flagging
them. Several times Cushion lay flat, and we thought he was going to
risk a long shot. Then he would crawl forward like a cat, but finally
came to his knee. We saw the little puff, the band squatted, jumping to
one side far enough to show one of their number down and struggling in
the throes of death.
“Good long shot, little man,” said the sergeant, “and you may have the
choice of cuts, just so I get a rib.”
We saw Conajo mount and ride up on a gallop, but we held our course for
the grove. We were busy making camp when the two rode in with a fine
two-year-old buck across the pommel of Cushion’s saddle. They had only
disemboweled him, but Conajo had the heart as a trophy of the accuracy
of the shot, though Cushion hadn’t a word to say. It was a splendid
heart shot. Conajo took it over and showed it to the two Mexican
prisoners. It was an object lesson to them. One said to the other, “Es
un buen tirador.”
We put the prisoners to roasting the ribs, and making themselves useful
in general. One man guarded them at their work, while all the others
attended to the hobbling and other camp duties.
It proved to be a delightful camp. We aimed to stay until sunset, the
days being sultry and hot. Our appetites were equal to the breakfast,
and it was a good one.
“To do justice to an occasion like this,” said Smoky as he squatted
down with about four ribs in his hand, “a man by rights ought to have
at least three fingers of good liquor under his belt. But then we can’t
have all the luxuries of life in the far West; sure to be something
lacking.”
“I never hear a man hanker for liquor,” said Conajo, as he poured out a
tin cup of coffee, “but I think of an incident my father used to tell
us boys at home. He was sheriff in Kentucky before we moved to Texas.
Was sheriff in the same county for twelve years. Counties are very
irregular back in the old States. Some look like a Mexican brand. One
of the rankest, rabid political admirers my father had lived away out
on a spur of this county. He lived good thirty miles from the county
seat. Didn’t come to town over twice a year, but he always stopped,
generally over night, at our house. My father wouldn’t have it any
other way. Talk about thieves being chummy; why, these two we have here
couldn’t hold a candle to that man and my father. I can see them
parting just as distinctly as though it was yesterday. He would always
abuse my father for not coming to see him. ‘Sam,’ he would say,—my
father’s name was Sam,—‘Sam, why on earth is it that you never come to
see me? I’ve heard of you within ten miles of my plantation, and you
have never shown your face to us once. Do you think we can’t entertain
you? Why, Sam, I’ve known you since you weren’t big enough to lead a
hound dog. I’ve known you since you weren’t knee to a grasshopper.’
“‘Let me have a word,’ my father would put in, for he was very mild in
speaking; ‘let me have a word, Joe. I hope you don’t think for a moment
that I wouldn’t like to visit you; now do you?’
“‘No, I don’t think so, Sam, but you don’t come. That’s why I’m
complaining. You never have come in the whole ten years you’ve been
sheriff, and you know that we have voted for you to a man, in our neck
of the woods.’ My father felt this last remark, though I think he never
realized its gravity before, but he took him by one hand, and laying
the other on his shoulder said, ‘Joe, if I have slighted you in the
past, I’m glad you have called my attention to it. Now, let me tell you
the first time that my business takes me within ten miles of your place
I’ll make it a point to reach your house and stay all night, and longer
if I can.’
“‘That’s all I ask, Sam,’ was his only reply. Now I’ve learned lots of
the ways of the world since then. I’ve seen people pleasant to each
other, and behind their backs the tune changed. But I want to say to
you fellows that those two old boys were not throwing off on each
other—not a little bit. They meant every word and meant it deep. It was
months afterwards, and father had been gone for a week when he came
home. He told us about his visit to Joe Evans. It was winter time, and
mother and us boys were sitting around the old fireplace in the
evening. ‘I never saw him so embarrassed before in my life,’ said
father. ‘I did ride out of my way, but I was glad of the chance. Men
like Joe Evans are getting scarce.’ He nodded to us boys. ‘It was
nearly dark when I rode up to his gate. He recognized me and came down
to the gate to meet me. “Howdy, Sam,” was all he said. There was a
troubled expression in his face, though he looked well enough, but he
couldn’t simply look me in the face. Just kept his eye on the ground.
He motioned for a nigger boy and said to him, “Take his horse.” He
started to lead the way up the path, when I stopped him. “Look here,
Joe,” I said to him. “Now, if there’s anything wrong, anything likely
to happen in the family, I can just as well drop back on the pike and
stay all night with some of the neighbors. You know I’m acquainted all
around here.” He turned in the path, and there was the most painful
look in his face I ever saw as he spoke: “Hell, no, Sam, there’s
nothing wrong. We’ve got plenty to eat, plenty of beds, no end of
horse-feed, but by G——, Sam, there isn’t a drop of whiskey on the
place!”’
“You see it was hoss and cabello, and Joe seemed to think the hoss on
him was an unpardonable offense. Salt? You’ll find it in an empty
one-spoon baking-powder can over there. In those panniers that belong
to that big sorrel mule. Look at Mexico over there burying his fangs in
the venison, will you?”
Ramrod was on guard, but he was so hungry himself that he was good
enough to let the prisoners eat at the same time, although he kept them
at a respectable distance. He was old in the service, and had gotten
his name under a baptism of fire. He was watching a pass once for
smugglers at a point called Emigrant Gap. This was long before he had
come to the present company. At length the man he was waiting for came
along. Ramrod went after him at close quarters, but the fellow was game
and drew his gun. When the smoke cleared away, Ramrod had brought down
his horse and winged his man right and left. The smuggler was not far
behind on the shoot, for Ramrod’s coat and hat showed he was calling
for him. The captain was joshing the prisoner about his poor shooting
when Ramrod brought him into camp and they were dressing his wounds.
“Well,” said the fellow, “I tried to hard enough, but I couldn’t find
him. He’s built like a ramrod.”
After breakfast was over we smoked and yarned. It would be two-hour
guards for the day, keeping an eye on the prisoners and stock, only one
man required; so we would all get plenty of sleep. Conajo had the first
guard after breakfast. “I remember once,” said Sergeant Smoky, as he
crushed a pipe of twist with the heel of his hand, “we were camped out
on the ‘Sunset’ railway. I was a corporal at the time. There came a
message one day to our captain, to send a man up West on that line to
take charge of a murderer. The result was, I was sent by the first
train to this point. When I arrived I found that an Irishman had killed
a Chinaman. It was on the railroad, at a bridge construction camp, that
the fracas took place. There were something like a hundred employees at
the camp, and they ran their own boarding-tent. They had a Chinese cook
at this camp; in fact, quite a number of Chinese were employed at
common labor on the road.