the old corral,—rode out over the claim noticing the rich soil thrown
up by the mole-hills. When we came up to our sooner, all of us
dismounted. Edwards confronted him and said, “Do you contest my right
to this claim?”
“I certainly do,” was the reply.
“Well, you won’t do so long,” said Edwards. Quick as a flash Mouse
prodded the cold steel muzzle of a six-shooter against his ear. As the
sooner turned his head and looked into Mouse’s stern countenance, one
of the boys relieved him of an ugly gun and knife that dangled from his
belt. “Get on your horse,” said Mouse, emphasizing his demand with an
oath, while the muzzle of a forty-five in his ear made the order
undebatable. Edwards took the horse by the bits and started for a large
black-jack tree which stood near by. Reaching it, Edwards said, “Better
use Coon’s rope; it’s manilla and stronger. Can any of you boys tie a
hangman’s knot?” he inquired when the rope was handed him.
“Yes, let me,” responded several.
“Which limb will be best?” inquired Mouse.
“Take this horse by the bits,” said Edwards to one of the boys, “till I
look.” He coiled the rope sailor fashion, and made an ineffectual
attempt to throw it over a large limb which hung out like a yard-arm,
but the small branches intervening defeated his throw. While he was
coiling the rope to make a second throw, some one said, “Mebby so he’d
like to pray.”
“What! him pray?” said Edwards. “Any prayer that he might offer
couldn’t get a hearing amongst men, let alone above, where liars are
forbidden.”
“Try that other limb,” said Coon to Edwards; “there’s not so much brush
in the way; we want to get this job done sometime to-day.” As Edwards
made a successful throw, he said, “Bring that horse directly
underneath.” At this moment Miller dashed up and demanded, “What in
hell are you trying to do?”
“This sheep-thief of a sooner contests my right to this claim,” snapped
Edwards, “and he has played his last cards on this earth. Lead that
horse under here.”
“Just one moment,” said Miller. “I think I know this man—think he
worked for me once in New Mexico.” The sooner looked at Miller
appealingly, his face blanched to whiteness. Miller took the bridle
reins out of the hands of the boy who was holding the horse, and
whispering something to the sooner said to us, “Are you all ready?”
“Just waiting on you,” said Edwards. The sooner gathered up the reins.
Miller turned the horse halfway round as though he was going to lead
him under the tree, gave him a slap in the flank with his hand, and the
sooner, throwing the rowels of his spurs into the horse, shot out from
us like a startled deer. We called to him to halt, as half a dozen
six-shooters encouraged him to go by opening a fusillade on the fleeing
horseman, who only hit the high places while going. Nor did we let up
fogging him until we emptied our guns and he entered the timber. There
was plenty of zeal in this latter part, as the lead must have zipped
and cried near enough to give it reality. Our object was to shoot as
near as possible without hitting.
Other horsemen put in an appearance as we were unsaddling and preparing
to camp, for we had come to stay a week if necessary. In about an hour
Jack joined us, speechless as usual, his face wreathed in smiles. The
first step toward a home he could call his own had been taken. We told
him about the trouble we had had with the sooner, a story which he
seemed to question, until Miller confirmed it. We put up a tent among
the black-jacks, as the nights were cool, and were soon at peace with
all the world.
At supper that evening Edwards said: “When the old settlers hold their
reunions in the next generation, they’ll say, ‘Thirty years ago Uncle
Jack Martin settled over there on Big Turkey,’ and point him out to
their children as one of the pioneer fathers.”
No one found trouble in getting to sleep that night, and the next day
arts long forgotten by most of us were revived. Some plowed up the old
branding-pen for a garden. Others cut logs for a cabin. Every one did
two ordinary days’ work. The getting of the logs together was the
hardest. We sawed and chopped and hewed for dear life. The first few
days Jack and one of the boys planted a fine big garden. On the fourth
day we gave up the tent, as the smoke curled upward from our own
chimney, in the way that it does in well-told stories. The last night
we spent with Jack was one long to be remembered. A bright fire snapped
and crackled in the ample fireplace. Every one told stories. Several of
the boys could sing “The Lone Star Cow-trail,” while “Sam Bass” and
“Bonnie Black Bess” were given with a vim.
The next morning we were to leave for camp. One of the boys who would
work for us that summer, but whose name was not on the pay-roll until
the round-up, stayed with Jack. We all went home feeling fine, and
leaving Jack happy as a bird in his new possession. As we were saddling
up to leave, Miller said to Jack, “Now if you’re any good, you’ll
delude some girl to keep house for you ’twixt now and fall. Remember
what the Holy Book says about it being hard luck for man to be alone.
You notice all your boomer neighbors have wives. That’s a hint to you
to do likewise.”
We were on the point of mounting, when the coyote horse began to act up
in great shape. Some one said to Edwards, “Loosen your cinches!” “Oh,
it’s nothing but the corn he’s been eating and a few days’ rest,” said
Miller. “He’s just running a little bluff on Billy.” As Edwards went to
put his foot in the stirrup a second time, the coyote reared like a
circus horse. “Now look here, colty,” said Billy, speaking to the
horse, “my daddy rode with Old John Morgan, the Confederate cavalry
raider, and he’d be ashamed of any boy he ever raised that couldn’t
ride a bad horse like you. You’re plum foolish to act this way. Do you
think I’ll walk and lead you home?” He led him out a few rods from the
others and mounted him without any trouble. “He just wants to show Jack
how it affects a cow-horse to graze a few days on a boomer’s
claim,—that’s all,” said Edwards, when he joined us.
“Now, Jack,” said Miller, as a final parting, “if you want a cow, I’ll
send one down, or if you need anything, let us know and we’ll come
a-running. It’s a bad example you’ve set us to go booming this way, but
we want to make a howling success out of you, so we can visit you next
winter. And mind what I told you about getting married,” he called back
as he rode away.
We reached camp by late noon. Miller kept up his talk about what a fine
move Jack had made; said that we must get him a stray beef for his next
winter’s meat; kept figuring constantly what else he could do for Jack.
“You come around in a few years and you’ll find him as cosy as a coon,
and better off than any of us,” said Miller, when we were talking about
his farming. “I’ve slept under wet blankets with him, and watched him
kindle a fire in the snow, too often not to know what he’s made of.
There’s good stuff in that little rascal.”
About the ranch it seemed lonesome without Jack. It was like coming
home from school when we were kids and finding mother gone to the
neighbor’s. We always liked to find her at home. We busied ourselves
repairing fences, putting in flood-gates on the river, doing anything
to keep away from camp. Miller himself went back to see Jack within ten
days, remaining a week. None of us stayed at the home ranch any more
than we could help. We visited other camps on hatched excuses, until
the home round-ups began. When any one else asked us about Jack, we
would blow about what a fine claim he had, and what a boost we had
given him. When we buckled down to the summer’s work the gloom
gradually left us. There were men to be sent on the eastern, western,
and middle divisions of the general round-up of the Strip. Two men were
sent south into the Cheyenne country to catch anything that had
winter-drifted. Our range lay in the middle division. Miller and one
man looked after it on the general round-up.
It was a busy year with us. Our range was full stocked, and by early
fall was rich with fat cattle. We lived with the wagon after the
shipping season commenced. Then we missed Jack, although the new cook
did the best he knew how. Train after train went out of our pasture,
yet the cattle were never missed. We never went to camp now; only the
wagon went in after supplies, though we often came within sight of the
stabling and corrals in our work.
One day, late in the season, we were getting out a train load of “Barb
Wire” cattle, when who should come toddling along on a plow nag but
Jack himself. Busy as we were, he held quite a levee, though he didn’t
give down much news, nor have anything to say about himself or the
crops. That night at camp, while the rest of us were arranging the
guards for the night, Miller and Jack prowled off in an opposite
direction from the beef herd, possibly half a mile, and afoot, too. We
could all see that something was working. Some trouble was bothering
Jack, and he had come to a friend in need, so we thought. They did not
come back to camp until the moon was up and the second guard had gone
out to relieve the first. When they came back not a word was spoken.
They unrolled Miller’s bed and slept together.
The next morning as Jack was leaving us to return to his claim, we
overheard him say to Miller, “I’ll write you.” As he faded from our
sight, Miller smiled to himself, as though he was tickled about
something. Finally Billy Edwards brought things to a head by asking
bluntly, “What’s up with Jack? We want to know.”
“Oh, it’s too good,” said Miller. “If that little game-legged rooster
hasn’t gone and deluded some girl back in the State into marrying him,
I’m a horse-thief. You fellows are all in the play, too. Came here
special to see when we could best get away. Wants every one of us to
come. He’s built another end to his house, double log style, floored
both rooms and the middle. Says he will have two fiddlers, and promises
us the hog killingest time of our lives. I’ve accepted the invitation
on behalf of the ‘J+H’s’ without consulting any one.”
“But supposing we are busy when it takes place,” said Mouse, “then
what?”
“But we won’t be,” answered Miller. “It isn’t every day that we have a
chance at a wedding in our little family, and when we get the word,
this outfit quits then and there. Ordinary callings in life, like
cattle matters, must go to the rear until important things are attended
to. Every man is expected to don his best togs, and dance to the centre
on the word. If it takes a week to turn the trick properly, good
enough. Jack and his bride must have a blow-out right. This outfit must
do themselves proud. It will be our night to howl, and every man will
be a wooly wolf.”
We loaded the beeves out the next day, going back after two trains of
“Turkey Track” cattle. While we were getting these out, Miller cut out
two strays and a cow or two, and sent them to the horse pasture at the
home camp. It was getting late in the fall, and we figured that a few
more shipments would end it. Miller told the owners to load out what
they wanted while the weather was fit, as our saddle horses were
getting worn out fast. As we were loading out the last shipment of
mixed cattle of our own, the letter came to Miller. Jack would return
with his bride on a date only two days off, and the festivities were
set for one day later. We pulled into headquarters that night, the
first time in six weeks, and turned everything loose. The next morning
we overhauled our Sunday bests, and worried around trying to pick out
something for a wedding present.
Miller gave the happy pair a little “Flower Pot” cow, which he had
rustled in the Cheyenne country on the round-up a few years before.
Edwards presented him with a log chain that a bone-picker had lost in
our pasture. Mouse gave Jack a four-tined fork which the hay outfit had
forgotten when they left. Coon Floyd’s compliments went with five
cow-bells, which we always thought he rustled from a boomer’s wagon
that broke down over on the Reno trail. It bothered some of us to
rustle something for a present, for you know we couldn’t buy anything.
We managed to get some deer’s antlers, a gray wolf’s skin for the
bride’s tootsies, and several colored sheepskins, which we had bought
from a Mexican horse herd going up the trail that spring. We killed a
nice fat little beef, the evening before we started, hanging it out
over night to harden. None of the boys knew the brand; in fact, it’s
bad taste to remember the brand on anything you’ve beefed. No one
troubles himself to notice it carefully. That night a messenger brought
a letter to Miller, ordering him to ship out the remnant of “Diamond
Tail” cattle as soon as possible. They belonged to a northwest Texas
outfit, and we were maturing them. The messenger stayed all night, and
in the morning asked, “Shall I order cars for you?”
“No, I have a few other things to attend to first,” answered Miller.
We took the wagon with us to carry our bedding and the other plunder,
driving along with us a cow and a calf of Jack’s, the little “Flower
Pot” cow, and a beef. Our outfit reached Jack’s house by the middle of
the afternoon. The first thing was to be introduced to the bride. Jack
did the honors himself, presenting each one of us, and seemed just as
proud as a little boy with new boots. Then we were given introductions
to several good-looking neighbor girls. We began to feel our own
inferiority.
While we were hanging up the quarters of beef on some pegs on the north
side of the cabin, Edwards said, whispering, “Jack must have pictured
this claim mighty hifalutin to that gal, for she’s a way up
good-looker. Another thing, watch me build to the one inside with the
black eyes. I claimed her first, remember. As soon as we get this beef
hung up I’m going in and sidle up to her.”
“We won’t differ with you on that point,” remarked Mouse, “but if she
takes any special shine to a runt like you, when there’s boys like the
rest of us standing around, all I’ve got to say is, her tastes must be
a heap sight sorry and depraved. I expect to dance with the bride—in
the head set—a whirl or two myself.”
“If I’d only thought,” chimed in Coon, “I’d sent up to the State and
got me a white shirt and a standing collar and a red necktie. You
galoots out-hold me on togs. But where I was raised, back down in Palo
Pinto County, Texas, I was some punkins as a ladies’ man myself—you
hear me.”
“Oh, you look all right,” said Edwards. “You would look all right with
only a cotton string around your neck.”
After tending to our horses, we all went into the house. There sat
Miller talking to the bride just as if he had known her always, with
Jack standing with his back to the fire, grinning like a cat eating
paste. The neighbor girls fell to getting supper, and our cook turned
to and helped. We managed to get fairly well acquainted with the
company by the time the meal was over. The fiddlers came early, in
fact, dined with us. Jack said if there were enough girls, we could run
three sets, and he thought there would be, as he had asked every one
both sides of the creek for five miles. The beds were taken down and
stowed away, as there would be no use for them that night.
The company came early. Most of the young fellows brought their best
girls seated behind them on saddle horses. This manner gave the girl a
chance to show her trustful, clinging nature. A horse that would carry
double was a prize animal. In settling up a new country, primitive
methods crop out as a matter of necessity.
Ben Thorn, an old-timer in the Strip, called off. While the company was
gathering, the fiddlers began to tune up, which sent a thrill through
us. When Ben gave the word, “Secure your pardners for the first
quadrille,” Miller led out the bride to the first position in the best
room, Jack’s short leg barring him as a participant. This was the
signal for the rest of us, and we fell in promptly. The fiddles struck
up “Hounds in the Woods,” the prompter’s voice rang out “Honors to your
pardner,” and the dance was on.
Edwards close-herded the black-eyed girl till supper time. Not a one of
us got a dance with her even. Mouse admitted next day, as we rode home,
that he squeezed her hand several times in the grand right and left,
just to show her that she had other admirers, that she needn’t throw
herself away on any one fellow, but it was no go. After supper Billy
corralled her in a corner, she seeming willing, and stuck to her until
her brother took her home nigh daylight.
Jack got us boys pardners for every dance. He proved himself clean
strain that night, the whitest little Injun on the reservation. We
knocked off dancing about midnight and had supper,—good coffee with no
end of way-up fine chuck. We ate as we danced, heartily. Supper over,
the dance went on full blast. About two o’clock in the morning, the
wire edge was well worn off the revelers, and they showed signs of
weariness. Miller, noticing it, ordered the Indian war-dance as given
by the Cheyennes. That aroused every one and filled the sets instantly.
The fiddlers caught the inspiration and struck into “Sift the Meal and
save the Bran.” In every grand right and left, we ki-yied as we had
witnessed Lo in the dance on festive occasions. At the end of every
change, we gave a war-whoop, some of the girls joining in, that would
have put to shame any son of the Cheyennes.
It was daybreak when the dance ended and the guests departed. Though we
had brought our blankets with us, no one thought of sleeping. Our cook
and one of the girls got breakfast. The bride offered to help, but we
wouldn’t let her turn her hand. At breakfast we discussed the incidents
of the night previous, and we all felt that we had done the occasion
justice.
XIII
A QUESTION OF POSSESSION
Along in the 80’s there occurred a question of possession in regard to
a brand of horses, numbering nearly two hundred head. Courts had
figured in former matters, but at this time they were not appealed to,
owing to the circumstances. This incident occurred on leased Indian
lands unprovided with civil courts,—in a judicial sense,
“No-Man’s-Land.” At this time it seemed that _might_ graced the
woolsack, while on one side Judge Colt cited his authority, only to be
reversed by Judge Parker, breech-loader, short-barreled, a full-choke
ten bore. The clash of opinions between these two eminent western
authorities was short, determined, and to the point.
A man named Gray had settled in one of the northwest counties in Texas
while it was yet the frontier, and by industry and economy of himself
and family had established a comfortable home. As a ranchman he had
raised the brand of horses in question. The history of this man is
somewhat obscured before his coming to Texas. But it was known and
admitted that he was a bankrupt, on account of surety debts which he
was compelled to pay for friends in his former home in Kentucky. Many a
good man had made similar mistakes before him. His neighbors spoke well
of him in Texas, and he was looked upon as a good citizen in general.
Ten years of privation and hardship, in their new home, had been met
and overcome, and now he could see a ray of hope for the better. The
little prosperity which was beginning to dawn upon himself and family
met with a sudden shock, in the form of an old judgment, which he
always contended his attorneys had paid. In some manner this judgment
was revived, transferred to the jurisdiction of his district, and an
execution issued against his property. Sheriff Ninde of this county was
not as wise as he should have been. When the execution was placed in
his hands, he began to look about for property to satisfy the judgment.
The exemption laws allowed only a certain number of gentle horses, and
as any class of range horses had a cash value then, this brand of
horses was levied on to satisfy the judgment.
The range on which these horses were running was at this time an open
one, and the sheriff either relied on his reputation as a bad man, or
probably did not know any better. The question of possession did not
bother him. Still this stock was as liable to range in one county as
another. There is one thing quite evident: the sheriff had overlooked
the nature of this man Gray, for he was no weakling, inclined to sit
down and cry. It was thought that legal advice caused him to take the
step he did, and it may be admitted, with no degree of shame, that
advice was often given on lines of justice if not of law, in the Lone
Star State. There was a time when the decisions of Judge Lynch in that
State had the hearty approval of good men. Anyhow, Gray got a few of
his friends together, gathered his horses without attracting attention,
and within a day’s drive crossed into the Indian Territory, where he
could defy all the sheriffs in Texas.
When this cold fact first dawned on Sheriff Ninde, he could hardly
control himself. With this brand of horses five or six days ahead of
him he became worried. The effrontery of any man to deny his
authority—the authority of a duly elected sheriff—was a reflection on
his record. His bondsmen began to inquire into the situation; in case
the property could not be recovered, were they liable as bondsmen?
Things looked bad for the sheriff.
The local papers in supporting his candidacy for this office had often
spoken of him and his chief deputy as human bloodhounds,—a terror to
evil doers. Their election, they maintained, meant a strict enforcement
of the laws, and assured the community that a better era would dawn in
favor of peace and security of life and property. Ninde was resourceful
if anything. He would overtake those horses, overpower the men if
necessary, and bring back to his own bailiwick that brand of
horse-stock. At least, that was his plan. Of course Gray might object,
but that would be a secondary matter. Sheriff Ninde would take time to
do this. Having made one mistake, he would make another to right it.
Gray had a brother living in one of the border towns of Kansas, and it
was thought he would head for this place. Should he take the horses
into the State, all the better, as they could invoke the courts of
another State and get other sheriffs to help.
Sixty years of experience with an uncharitable world had made Gray
distrustful of his fellow man, though he did not wish to be so. So when
he reached his brother in Kansas without molestation, he exercised
caution enough to leave the herd of horses in the territory. The courts
of this neutral strip were Federal, and located at points in adjoining
States, but there was no appeal to them in civil cases. United States
marshals looked after the violators of law against the government.
Sheriff Ninde sent his deputy to do the Sherlock act for him as soon as
the horses were located. This the deputy had no trouble in doing, as
this sized bunch of horses could not well be hidden, nor was there any
desire on the part of Gray to conceal them.
The horses were kept under herd day and night in a near-by pasture.
Gray usually herded by day, and two young men, one his son, herded by
night. Things went on this way for a month. In the mean time the deputy
had reported to the sheriff, who came on to personally supervise the
undertaking. Gray was on the lookout, and was aware of the deputy’s
presence. All he could do was to put an extra man on herd at night, arm
his men well, and await results.
The deputy secretly engaged seven or eight bad men of the long-haired
variety, such as in the early days usually graced the frontier towns
with their presence. This brand of human cattle were not the disturbing
element on the border line of civilization that writers of that period
depicted, nor the authors of the bloodcurdling drama portrayed. The
average busy citizen paid little attention to them, considering them
more ornamental than useful. But this was about the stripe that was
wanted and could be secured for the work in hand. A good big bluff was
considered sufficient for the end in view. This crowd was mounted,
armed to the teeth, and all was ready. Secrecy was enjoined on every
one. Led by the sheriff and his deputy, they rode out about midnight to
the pasture and found the herd and herders.
“What do you fellows want here?” demanded young Gray, as Ninde and his
posse rode up.
“We want these horses,” answered the sheriff.
“On what authority?” demanded Gray.