reached for his carbine and flattened himself out on the ground. The
whistle was answered, and shortly the splash of quite a cavalcade could
be heard fording the river. Several times they halted, our fire having
died out, and whistles were exchanged between them and Root. When they
came within fifty yards of camp and their outlines could be
distinguished against the sky line in the darkness, they were ordered
to halt, and a dozen carbines clicked an accompaniment to the order.
“Who are you?” demanded Root.
“A detachment from Company M, Texas Rangers,” was the reply.
“If you are Rangers, give us a maxim of the service,” said Dad.
“_Don’t wait for the other man to shoot first_,” came the response.
“Ride in, that passes here,” was Dad’s greeting and welcome.
They were a detachment of fifteen men, and had ridden from the Pecos on
the south, nearly the same distance which we had come. They had similar
orders to ours, but were advised that they would meet our detachment at
this ford. In less than an hour every man was asleep again, and quiet
reigned in the Ranger camp at Comanche Ford on the Concho.
IX
AROUND THE SPADE WAGON
It was an early spring. The round-up was set for the 10th of June. The
grass was well forward, while the cattle had changed their shaggy
winter coats to glossy suits of summer silk. The brands were as
readable as an alphabet.
It was one day yet before the round-up of the Cherokee Strip. This
strip of leased Indian lands was to be worked in three divisions. We
were on our way to represent the Coldwater Pool in the western
division, on the annual round-up. Our outfit was four men and thirty
horses. We were to represent a range that had twelve thousand cattle on
it, a total of forty-seven brands. We had been in the saddle since
early morning, and as we came out on a narrow divide, we caught our
first glimpse of the Cottonwoods at Antelope Springs, the rendezvous
for this division. The setting sun was scarcely half an hour high, and
the camp was yet five miles distant. We had covered sixty miles that
day, traveling light, our bedding lashed on gentle saddle horses. We
rode up the mesa quite a little distance to avoid some rough broken
country, then turned southward toward the Springs. Before turning off,
we could see with the naked eye signs of life at the meeting-point. The
wagon sheets of half a dozen chuck-wagons shone white in the dim
distance, while small bands of saddle horses could be distinctly seen
grazing about.
When we halted at noon that day to change our mounts, we sighted to the
northward some seven miles distant an outfit similar to our own. We
were on the lookout for this cavalcade; they were supposed to be the
“Spade” outfit, on their way to attend the round-up in the middle
division, where our pasture lay. This year, as in years past, we had
exchanged the courtesies of the range with them. Their men on our
division were made welcome at our wagon, and we on theirs were extended
the same courtesy. For this reason we had hoped to meet them and
exchange the chronicle of the day, concerning the condition of cattle
on their range, the winter drift, and who would be captain this year on
the western division, but had traveled the entire day without meeting a
man.
Night had almost set in when we reached the camp, and to our
satisfaction and delight found the Spade wagon already there, though
their men and horses would not arrive until the next day. To hungry men
like ourselves, the welcome of their cook was hospitality in the
fullest sense of the word. We stretched ropes from the wagon wheels,
and in a few moments’ time were busy hobbling our mounts. Darkness had
settled over the camp as we were at this work, while an occasional
horseman rode by with the common inquiry, “Whose outfit is this?” and
the cook, with one end of the rope in his hand, would feel the host in
him sufficiently to reply in tones supercilious, “The Coldwater Pool
men are with us this year.”
Our arrival was heralded through the camp with the same rapidity with
which gossip circulates, equally in a tenement alley or the upper crust
of society. The cook had informed us that we had been inquired for by
some Panhandle man; so before we had finished hobbling, a stranger sang
out across the ropes in the darkness, “Is Billy Edwards here?”
Receiving an affirmative answer from among the horses’ feet, he added,
“Come out, then, and shake hands with a friend.”
Edwards arose from his work, and looking across the backs of the circle
of horses about him, at the undistinguishable figure at the rope,
replied, “Whoever you are, I reckon the acquaintance will hold good
until I get these horses hobbled.”
“Who is it?” inquired “Mouse” from over near the hind wheel of the
wagon, where he was applying the hemp to the horses’ ankles.
“I don’t know,” said Billy, as he knelt among the horses and resumed
his work,—“some geranium out there wants me to come out and shake
hands, pow-wow, and make some medicine with him; that’s all. Say, we’ll
leave Chino for picket, and that Chihuahua cutting horse of Coon’s, you
have to put a rope on when you come to him. He’s too touchy to sabe
hobbles if you don’t.”
When we had finished hobbling, and the horses were turned loose, the
stranger proved to be “Babe” Bradshaw, an old chum of Edwards’s. The
Spade cook added an earthly laurel to his temporal crown with the
supper to which he shortly invited us. Bradshaw had eaten with the
general wagon, but he sat around while we ate. There was little
conversation during the supper, for our appetites were such and the
spread so inviting that it simply absorbed us.
“Don’t bother me,” said Edwards to his old chum, in reply to some
inquiry. “Can’t you see that I’m occupied at present?”
We did justice to the supper, having had no dinner that day. The cook
even urged, with an earnestness worthy of a motherly landlady, several
dishes, but his browned potatoes and roast beef claimed our attention.
“Well, what are you doing in this country anyhow?” inquired Edwards of
Bradshaw, when the inner man had been thoroughly satisfied.
“Well, sir, I have a document in my pocket, with sealing wax but no
ribbons on it, which says that I am the duly authorized representative
of the Panhandle Cattle Association. I also have a book in my pocket
showing every brand and the names of its owners, and there is a whole
raft of them. I may go to St. Louis to act as inspector for my people
when the round-up ends.”
“You’re just as windy as ever, Babe,” said Billy. “Strange I didn’t
recognize you when you first spoke. You’re getting natural now, though.
I suppose you’re borrowing horses, like all these special inspectors
do. It’s all right with me, but good men must be scarce in your section
or you’ve improved rapidly since you left us. By the way, there is a
man or four lying around here that also represents about forty-seven
brands. Possibly you’d better not cut any of their cattle or you might
get them cut back on you.”
“Do you remember,” said Babe, “when I dissolved with the ‘Ohio’ outfit
and bought in with the ‘LX’ people?”
“When you what?” repeated Edwards.
“Well, then, when I was discharged by the ‘Ohio’s’ and got a job
ploughing fire-guards with the ‘LX’s.’ Is that plain enough for your
conception? I learned a lesson then that has served me since to good
advantage. Don’t hesitate to ask for the best job on the works, for if
you don’t you’ll see some one get it that isn’t as well qualified to
fill it as you are. So if you happen to be in St. Louis, call around
and see me at the Panhandle headquarters. Don’t send in any card by a
nigger; walk right in. I might give you some other pointers, but you
couldn’t appreciate them. You’ll more than likely be driving a
chuck-wagon in a few years.”
These old cronies from boyhood sparred along in give-and-take repartee
for some time, finally drifting back to boyhood days, while the
harshness that pervaded their conversation before became mild and
genial.
“Have you ever been back in old San Saba since we left?” inquired
Edwards after a long meditative silence.
“Oh, yes, I spent a winter back there two years ago, though it was hard
lines to enjoy yourself. I managed to romance about for two or three
months, sowing turnip seed and teaching dancing-school. The girls that
you and I knew are nearly all married.”
“What ever became of the O’Shea girls?” asked Edwards. “You know that I
was high card once with the eldest.”
“You’d better comfort yourself with the thought,” answered Babe, “for
you couldn’t play third fiddle in her string now. You remember old
Dennis O’Shea was land-poor all his life. Well, in the land and cattle
boom a few years ago he was picked up and set on a pedestal. It’s
wonderful what money can do! The old man was just common bog Irish all
his life, until a cattle syndicate bought his lands and cattle for
twice what they were worth. Then he blossomed into a capitalist. He
always was a trifle hide-bound. Get all you can and can all you get,
took precedence and became the first law with your papa-in-law. The old
man used to say that the prettiest sight he ever saw was the smoke
arising from a ‘Snake’ branding-iron. They moved to town, and have been
to Europe since they left the ranch. Jed Lynch, you know, was smitten
on the youngest girl. Well, he had the nerve to call on them after
their return from Europe. He says that they live in a big house, their
name’s on the door, and you have to ring a bell, and then a nigger
meets you. It must make a man feel awkward to live around a wagon all
his days, and then suddenly change to style and put on a heap of dog.
Jed says the red-headed girl, the middle one, married some fellow, and
they live with the old folks. He says the other girls treated him
nicely, but the old lady, she has got it bad. He says that she just
languishes on a sofa, cuts into the conversation now and then, and
simply swells up. She don’t let the old man come into the parlor at
all. Jed says that when the girls were describing their trip through
Europe, one of them happened to mention Rome, when the old lady
interrupted: ‘Rome? Rome? Let me see, I’ve forgotten, girls. Where is
Rome?’
“‘Don’t you remember when we were in Italy,’ said one of the girls,
trying to refresh her memory.
“‘Oh, yes, now I remember; that’s where I bought you girls such nice
long red stockings.’
“The girls suddenly remembered some duty about the house that required
their immediate attention, and Jed says that he looked out of the
window.”
“So you think I’ve lost my number, do you?” commented Edwards, as he
lay on his back and fondly patted a comfortable stomach.
“Well, possibly I have, but it’s some consolation to remember that that
very good woman that you’re slandering used to give me the glad hand
and cut the pie large when I called. I may be out of the game, but I’d
take a chance yet if I were present; that’s what!”
They were singing over at one of the wagons across the draw, and after
the song ended, Bradshaw asked, “What ever became of Raneka Bill
Hunter?”
“Oh, he’s drifting about,” said Edwards. “Mouse here can tell you about
him. They’re old college chums.”
“Raneka was working for the ‘-BQ’ people last summer,” said Mouse, “but
was discharged for hanging a horse, or rather he discharged himself. It
seems that some one took a fancy to a horse in his mount. The last man
to buy into an outfit that way always gets all the bad horses for his
string. As Raneka was a new man there, the result was that some excuse
was given him to change, and they rung in a spoilt horse on him in
changing. Being new that way, he wasn’t on to the horses. The first
time he tried to saddle this new horse he showed up bad. The horse
trotted up to him when the rope fell on his neck, reared up nicely and
playfully, and threw out his forefeet, stripping the three upper
buttons off Bill’s vest pattern. Bill never said a word about his
intentions, but tied him to the corral fence and saddled up his own
private horse. There were several men around camp, but they said
nothing, being a party to the deal, though they noticed Bill riding
away with the spoilt horse. He took him down on the creek about a mile
from camp and hung him.
“How did he do it? Why, there was a big cottonwood grew on a bluff bank
of the creek. One limb hung out over the bluff, over the bed of the
creek. He left the running noose on the horse’s neck, climbed out on
this overhanging limb, taking the rope through a fork directly over the
water. He then climbed down and snubbed the free end of the rope to a
small tree, and began taking in his slack. When the rope began to choke
the horse, he reared and plunged, throwing himself over the bluff. That
settled his ever hurting any one. He was hung higher than Haman. Bill
never went back to the camp, but struck out for other quarters. There
was a month’s wages coming to him, but he would get that later or they
might keep it. Life had charms for an old-timer like Bill, and he
didn’t hanker for any reputation as a broncho-buster. It generally
takes a verdant to pine for such honors.
“Last winter when Bill was riding the chuck line, he ran up against a
new experience. It seems that some newcomer bought a range over on
Black Bear. This new man sought to set at defiance the customs of the
range. It was currently reported that he had refused to invite people
to stay for dinner, and preferred that no one would ask for a night’s
lodging, even in winter. This was the gossip of the camps for miles
around, so Bill and some juniper of a pardner thought they would make a
call on him and see how it was. They made it a point to reach his camp
shortly after noon. They met the owner just coming out of the dug-out
as they rode up. They exchanged the compliments of the hour, when the
new man turned and locked the door of the dug-out with a padlock. Bill
sparred around the main question, but finally asked if it was too late
to get dinner, and was very politely informed that dinner was over.
This latter information was, however, qualified with a profusion of
regrets. After a confession of a hard ride made that morning from a
camp many miles distant, Bill asked the chance to remain over night.
Again the travelers were met with serious regrets, as no one would be
at camp that night, business calling the owner away; he was just
starting then. The cowman led out his horse, and after mounting and
expressing for the last time his sincere regrets that he could not
extend to them the hospitalities of his camp, rode away.
“Bill and his pardner moseyed in an opposite direction a short distance
and held a parley. Bill was so nonplussed at the reception that it took
him some little time to collect his thoughts. When it thoroughly dawned
on him that the courtesies of the range had been trampled under foot by
a rank newcomer and himself snubbed, he was aroused to action.
“‘Let’s go back,’ said Bill to his pardner, ‘and at least leave our
card. He might not like it if we didn’t.’
“They went back and dismounted about ten steps from the door. They shot
every cartridge they both had, over a hundred between them, through the
door, fastened a card with their correct names on it, and rode away.
One of the boys that was working there, but was absent at the time,
says there was a number of canned tomato and corn crates ranked up at
the rear of the dug-out, in range with the door. This lad says that it
looked as if they had a special grievance against those canned goods,
for they were riddled with lead. That fellow lost enough by that act to
have fed all the chuck-line men that would bother him in a year.
“Raneka made it a rule,” continued Mouse, “to go down and visit the
Cheyennes every winter, sometimes staying a month. He could make a good
stagger at speaking their tongue, so that together with his knowledge
of the Spanish and the sign language he could converse with them
readily. He was perfectly at home with them, and they all liked him.
When he used to let his hair grow long, he looked like an Indian. Once,
when he was wrangling horses for us during the beef-shipping season, we
passed him off for an Indian on some dining-room girls. George Wall was
working with us that year, and had gone in ahead to see about the cars
and find out when we could pen and the like. We had to drive to the
State line, then, to ship. George took dinner at the best hotel in the
town, and asked one of the dining-room girls if he might bring in an
Indian to supper the next evening. They didn’t know, so they referred
him to the landlord. George explained to that auger, who, not wishing
to offend us, consented. There were about ten girls in the dining-room,
and they were on the lookout for the Indian. The next night we penned a
little before dark. Not a man would eat at the wagon; every one rode
for the hotel. We fixed Bill up in fine shape, put feathers in his
hair, streaked his face with red and yellow, and had him all togged out
in buckskin, even to moccasins. As we entered the dining-room, George
led him by the hand, assuring all the girls that he was perfectly
harmless. One long table accommodated us all. George, who sat at the
head with our Indian on his right, begged the girls not to act as
though they were afraid; he might notice it. Wall fed him pickles and
lump sugar until the supper was brought on. Then he pushed back his
chair about four feet, and stared at the girls like an idiot. When
George ordered him to eat, he stood up at the table. When he wouldn’t
let him stand, he took the plate on his knee, and ate one side dish at
a time. Finally, when he had eaten everything that suited his taste, he
stood up and signed with his hands to the group of girls, muttering,
‘Wo-haw, wo-haw.’
“‘He wants some more beef,’ said Wall. ‘Bring him some more beef.’
After a while he stood up and signed again, George interpreting his
wants to the dining-room girls: ‘Bring him some coffee. He’s awful fond
of coffee.’
“That supper lasted an hour, and he ate enough to kill a horse. As we
left the dining-room, he tried to carry away a sugar-bowl, but Wall
took it away from him. As we passed out George turned back and
apologized to the girls, saying, ‘He’s a good Injun. I promised him he
might eat with us. He’ll talk about this for months now. When he goes
back to his tribe he’ll tell his squaws all about you girls feeding
him.’”
“Seems like I remember that fellow Wall,” said Bradshaw, meditating.
“Why, of course you do. Weren’t you with us when we voted the bonds to
the railroad company?” asked Edwards.
“No, never heard of it; must have been after I left. What business did
you have voting bonds?”
“Tell him, Coon. I’m too full for utterance,” said Edwards.
“If you’d been in this country you’d heard of it,” said Coon Floyd.
“For a few years everything was dated from that event. It was like
‘when the stars fell,’ and the ‘surrender’ with the old-time darkies at
home. It seems that some new line of railroad wanted to build in, and
wanted bonds voted to them as bonus. Some foxy agent for this new line
got among the long-horns, who own the cattle on this Strip, and showed
them that it was to their interests to get a competing line in the
cattle traffic. The result was, these old long-horns got owly, laid
their heads together, and made a little medicine. Every mother’s son of
us in the Strip was entitled to claim a home somewhere, so they put it
up that we should come in and vote for the bonds. It was believed it
would be a close race if they carried, for it was by counties that the
bonds were voted. Towns that the road would run through would vote
unanimously for them, but outlying towns would vote solidly against the
bonds. There was a big lot of money used, wherever it came from, for we
were royally entertained. Two or three days before the date set for the
election, they began to head for this cow-town, every man on his top
horse. Everything was as free as air, and we all understood that a new
railroad was a good thing for the cattle interests. We gave it not only
our votes, but moral support likewise.
“It was a great gathering. The hotels fed us, and the liveries cared
for our horses. The liquid refreshments were provided by the
prohibition druggists of the town and were as free as the sunlight.
There was an underestimate made on the amount of liquids required, for
the town was dry about thirty minutes; but a regular train was run
through from Wichita ahead of time, and the embarrassment overcome.
There was an opposition line of railroad working against the bonds, but
they didn’t have any better sense than to send a man down to our town
to counteract our exertions. Public sentiment was a delicate matter
with us, and while this man had no influence with any of us, we didn’t
feel the same toward him as we might. He was distributing his tickets
around, and putting up a good argument, possibly, from his point of
view, when some of these old long-horns hinted to the boys to show the
fellow that he wasn’t wanted. ‘Don’t hurt him,’ said one old cow-man to
this same Wall, ‘but give him a scare, so he will know that we don’t
indorse him a little bit. Let him know that this town knows how to vote
without being told. I’ll send a man to rescue him, when things have
gone far enough. You’ll know when to let up.’
“That was sufficient. George went into a store and cut off about fifty
feet of new rope. Some fellows that knew how tied a hangman’s knot. As
we came up to the stranger, we heard him say to a man, ‘I tell you,
sir, these bonds will pauperize unborn gener—’ But the noose dropped
over his neck, and cut short his argument. We led him a block and a
half through the little town, during which there was a pointed argument
between Wall and a “Z——” man whether the city scales or the stockyards
arch gate would be the best place to hang him. There were a hundred men
around him and hanging on to the rope, when a druggist, whom most of
them knew, burst through the crowd, and whipping out a knife cut the
rope within a few feet of his neck. ‘What in hell are you varments
trying to do?’ roared the druggist. ‘This man is a cousin of mine.
Going to hang him, are you? Well, you’ll have to hang me with him when
you do.’
“‘Just as soon make it two as one,’ snarled George. ‘When did you get
the chips in this game, I’d like to know? Oppose the progress of the
town, too, do you?’
“‘No, I don’t,’ said the druggist, ‘and I’ll see that my cousin here
doesn’t.’
“‘That’s all we ask, then,’ said Wall; ‘turn him loose, boys. We don’t
want to hang no man. We hold you responsible if he opens his mouth
again against the bonds.’
“‘Hold me responsible, gentlemen,’ said the druggist, with a profound
bow. ‘Come with me, Cousin,’ he said to the Anti.
“The druggist took him through his store, and up some back stairs; and
once he had him alone, this was his advice, as reported to us later:
‘You’re a stranger to me. I lied to those men, but I saved your life.
Now, I’ll take you to the four-o’clock train, and get you out of this
town. By this act I’ll incur the hatred of these people that I live
amongst. So you let the idea go out that you are my cousin. Sabe? Now,
stay right here and I’ll bring you anything you want, but for Heaven’s
sake, don’t give me away.’
“‘Is—is—is the four o’clock train the first out?’ inquired the new
cousin.
“‘It is the first. I’ll see you through this. I’ll come up and see you
every hour. Take things cool and easy now. I’m your friend, remember,’
was the comfort they parted on.
“There were over seven hundred votes cast, and only one against the
bonds. How that one vote got in is yet a mystery. There were no hard
drinkers among the boys, all easy drinkers, men that never refused to
drink. Yet voting was a little new to them, and possibly that was how
this mistake occurred. We got the returns early in the evening. The
county had gone by a handsome majority for the bonds. The committee on
entertainment had provided a ball for us in the basement of the Opera
House, it being the largest room in town. When the good news began to
circulate, the merchants began building bonfires. Fellows who didn’t
have extra togs on for the ball got out their horses, and in squads of
twenty to fifty rode through the town, painting her red. If there was
one shot fired that night, there were ten thousand.
“I bought a white shirt and went to the ball. To show you how general
the good feeling amongst everybody was, I squeezed the hand of an
alfalfa widow during a waltz, who instantly reported the affront
offered to her gallant. In her presence he took me to task for the
offense. ‘Young man,’ said the doctor, with a quiet wink,’ this lady is
under my protection. The fourteenth amendment don’t apply to you nor
me. Six-shooters, however, make us equal. Are you armed?’
“‘I am, sir.’
“‘Unfortunately, I am not. Will you kindly excuse me, say ten minutes?’
“‘Certainly, sir, with pleasure.’