Hides Bound for the Railroad.—I Go Into Partnership.—We Start
North.—Grand Wild Animal Show.—The Wichita Mountains.—Wrong-wheel
Jones.—I killed Eighty-eight Buffalo.—I was Verdigris-poisoned.—Traded
Eagle Feathers for Pony.—Back South for a Winter's Hunt.
The freighters were instructed to look for these stakes after leaving
Quinn's. Five days after Charlie's arrival, the freight teams arrived
in camp. Each wagon had on a big rack, built like hay-racks. The hides
were piled in this rack with a lap and boomed down tight like a load of
hay. I have seen 200 bull-hides piled on one wagon. A dry bull-hide,
as a rule, would weigh about fifty pounds. So the reader may have some
idea of a train of six yokes of oxen to the team, lead and trail wagon
to each team, the lead wagon hauling nearly 200 hides, and the trail
hauling from 100 to 150. In bad places the trail was uncoupled while
the lead wagon was drawn to good going. Then the driver would go back
and bring up his trail wagon, couple on, and proceed.
It was quite a sight to see an outfit of twenty-five teams, as was
frequently the case, weaving its way through the heart of the range.
After loading at the camps, I piloted the freighters to our first camp,
and my services were rendered to Hart and Hickey. By this time Quinn's
was getting to be quite a headquarters for the hunters; so Charlie and
I pulled for their place.
When we got there there were not less than twenty outfits, large and
small, there. Some were going to the Canadian, up in the Panhandle,
others were going west up the McKenzie trail to the Whitefish country
and vicinity. Not one there knew or ever heard of the O Z brand. While
here, Hart changed his mind about the Canadian hunt, and decided he
would go to the Whitefish country. He believed from what he had heard
that we were near the line of the second division of the great herds.
He argued that the buffaloes were in three grand divisions: those from
British America coming south in the summer, as far as the Platte river,
and returning north in the fall; those in central western Texas going
north to the Platte in summer, and returning south in the fall; and all
from the Staked Plains region down to the Rio Grande were located, and
they traveled east, west, north and south a certain distance, heading
the wind. Part of all of which was fact.
But in six months more I knew more about the buffaloes than I did then.
For all buffaloes had their nostrils for their protection. They were
keen of scent, and would run quicker from scent than sight or sound.
I remember that in the Wolf creek country north of the Canadian, in
July of this same year, the country was full of buffaloes; and there
were some of them far north yet of the Arkansas river. The wind,
what there was at a certain time, came from the southwest for seven
consecutive days, and every buffalo was either traveling or headed
that way; and on the eighth day the wind changed to the east about
midnight, and blew pretty strong all the next day. And all day long the
buffaloes moved eastward. That night there was heavy thunder and sharp
lightning in the south; and just before daylight the wind whipped to
the south and rain began to fall. As soon as it was light we noticed
the buffaloes were headed south, and moving _en masse_.
Then again: In the following November, while hunting on a little
tributary of Red river, when they were on their southward swing, there
came up a "norther," a common term used in the southwest for a sudden
cold spell, with the wind generally coming from the north. For three
days they were headed north and northwest. So I, and all hunters of any
observation, would be justifiable in saying that when unmolested, as a
rule their heads were toward the wind.
Another characteristic about them was the family tie. I have heard old
hunters who grew up on the border-land of the last great range declare
that, "Where little, isolated and disconnected bands were seen, on
either side or rear of the great mass, they were all related, generally
having some old cow for a leader."
While here at Quinn's I met a namesake who wanted a partner. He was a
tall, sinewy, fine-looking plainsman. Had a family in northern Kansas
and a homestead that a succession of drouths had driven him from, to
get means to support his family; and the chase had captivated him. He
had followed the buffaloes from Sawlog creek, north of the Arkansas
river, to the Clear Fork of the Brazos. He had a good heavy team; and
with a neighbor boy had done well, from a financial standpoint.
He sold 300 hides at Dodge City, Kansas, and did not know that it was
against the law to hunt for the hides in his own State until after he
had sold them. That was his midsummer hunt.
He then came south, and made an early fall hunt on the Washita, in the
Panhandle of Texas, selling the hunt for $400. Then he made a late fall
hunt on the North Fork of Red river, getting $300 worth of hides. Both
of these last hunts he sold to Rath & Wright at Fort Elliott.
His winter hunt was made on California creek, between Quinn's and
Fort Griffin, together with a few days' hunt on the Clear Fork of the
Brazos. All of the last two netted him $471. He was paying the boy $25
per month.
He told me that he had sent most of his money to his family from Dodge
City, Fort Elliott and Fort Griffin to their home in Kansas; that he
wished to make a summer hunt on Commission creek, and the Wolf creek
country, northwest of the Antelope hills and north of the Canadian
river, in the Panhandle of Texas; and after making the summer hunt he
would retire from the range.
"Now," said he, "I would like to have you for a partner, if you can see
your interest that way."
I told him about my land claim in Nueces county; and that I was
going to Fort Griffin, and from there to Albany, the county seat of
Shackleford county, the county Fort Griffin was in, and from there I
intended to commence the establishment of my claim to the land through
an attorney; and not being in possession of the original warrant for
the land, it would take some time to perfect my claim; that I did not
want to be on expense during the time it took to establish the validity
of my rights; that I was open to a proposition of hunting, but not of
skinning buffaloes as a specialty.
He had injured one of his eyes, and wanted me to do the principal
killing. He said he was going to Griffin, then to take the western
cow trail, that crossed the North Fork of Red river, in a gap of the
Wichita mountains; also the South Canadian at the Antelope hills, and
on to Commission creek, where the Fort Dodge and Fort Elliott trail
struck it. And would I give him an answer in Griffin?
I told him I would.
I told Charlie of my talk with Cook; and that I believed I would go
with him. He replied that he always said that he never wanted to go
partner in any kind of business; but if I would not stay with him any
other way, he would take me into full partnership.
I said had I known that before it might have been different; but I had
gone so far now that I did not think it right to break square off with
the other man. "And I have never mentioned a partnership with you, for
I knew your mind in relation to it long ago."
His only reply was that he hoped I would have the best of success. We
separated at Quinn's and did not meet again until early in 1877.
Before Cook and I left for Griffin I put my new saddle on the O Z mare,
the one I had picked up on the Indian trail. I had not tried to ride
her before. Gentle as she seemed to be, I would not take any chances
in trying her, for fear she might be a chronic bucker; and there being
no crowd around to run her in case I was thrown, I thought to let the
trial test go until a favorable opportunity, which this seemed to be,
and the first real good one to present itself. She paid no attention to
saddling, and when I mounted her she moved off nice and gingerly, and
proved to be a camp pet.
The next morning after I arrived at Griffin I met Cyrus Reed. He and
Hadley were now in partnership, and were outfitted for a hunt to be
made near the head of the Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos. Cyrus
read a bill of sale to me that he had in his possession for the steel
gray O Z mare I had. It purported to be given to him by a man named
Thomas Hubbard. The consideration was a Sharp's rifle and $14 in money.
It was dated at Fort Griffin, and gave a complete description of the
animal: "dark gray, branded O Z on left shoulder."
On the first impulse I felt that this bill of sale was _bogus_. I asked
where Hubbard lived.
"Oh," said he, "he—lives—somewhere—in Kansas." I didn't ask him _where_.
"Well," I said, "is there any reliable person here that knows him?" He
didn't know.
I said, "Let me have that paper. Who witnessed it? Who executed it? I
must know all about it." He would not hand me the bill of sale.
I said: "Just let the O Z horse alone. I'll lay this case before Johnny
Lorin, the sheriff of this county. He is right over there at Jackson's
store. I am willing to turn the mare over to him, if you will give him
the bill of sale, until we can locate this man Hubbard."
No; he wanted his mare.
I went to camp; led the mare up to Jackson's store, and found the
sheriff. He was talking with Captain Millet, of the firm of Millet,
Ellison & Deweese, a large cattle outfit. As I laid the case before the
sheriff, Captain Millet took in the situation. He believed the bill of
sale was a fraud. We all three hunted Reed up, and before we were done
with him, he did not seem anxious to get the mare.
The captain and the sheriff both advised me to keep the mare in my
possession for want of better proof of the validity of the bill of sale.
The facts were, that Hadley had seen the mare when he came to our camp,
after his long absence; heard Charlie tell him how I had found her;
he had walked all around her; looked in her mouth and looked her well
over; and after he left thought that a bill of sale was a cheap way to
get her. But it did not pan out, as the miner would say. He had used
Cyrus for a stool-pigeon, and had taken the name of Hubbard in vain, if
any such person ever existed.
I now told Cook that I would cast my lot with him for a summer hunt to
the north. I bought a new wagon and harness; hitched "Keno" and the O
Z mare together, which made me a fair team. Cook and I were to bear
share and share alike all the expenses, and the same with the profits.
We hired a Mexican called Pedro to skin buffaloes at 20 cents per hide,
and we would board him whether at work or idle. The boy, Jimmie Dunlap,
continued on at $25 per month, work or play. We bought our flour,
groceries and ammunition of Jackson. I laid in a good supply, and after
counting out the price of my saddle, wagon, harness, and some clothing,
I had just $106 left from all sources. I had received $105 as camp
watch and had $12 of the $96 I had brought from New Mexico.
So one fine morning we left the Clear Fork and made good daily drives
to Commission creek, some 250 miles, without incident. The Mexican rode
mostly with me and Jimmie Dunlap with the other Cook, whose given name
was Charles, and whom, hereafter, I will call Charlie, as I did the
famous hunter, Hart.
We caught up with the rear of the buffaloes at Red river. We camped
one night at the gap of the Wichita Mountains, where the great western
cattle trail crossed the North Fork of Red river. This is the trail
that 200,000 head of Texas cattle passed over during the summer drive
of 1881.
From the summit of one of these western spurs of the beautiful Wichita
Mountains, I got a view of an inland empire-to-be. I had purchased an
elegant pair of long-range field-glasses of Mr. Conrad, the post sutler
at Fort Griffin, and with these I had a view that seldom falls to the
lot of mankind for variety of scenery. The great herds of buffalo were
in sight from any point of view, east, west, north and south, but the
heaviest, thick, dark mass was many miles to the west. Skirting the
edge of the tablelands, on the northern line of the Llano Estacado,
northwest as far as the vision extended, were to be seen the seemingly
countless bison. Looking down the Otter creek way were many scattering
bands of antelope; and yonder to the southwest were three big gray
wolves following a limping buffalo, whose leg perhaps some hunter had
broken.
Coming down off of that mountain, east of me were hundreds of wild
turkeys; looking back down the trail we came over and on still south of
Red river, on a big flat as large as two Congressional townships, could
be seen the herd of 3000 Texas cattle that we had passed by on the
Wichita river. Even the covered cook-wagon was plainly to be seen in
the rear of the long-strung-out herd, on its way to Ogalalla, Nebraska,
and finally destined to the Wind river country in Montana.
Looking northward, coming down the trail is a covered wagon and a buggy
and thirty-two cow-ponies being driven by two men, whom I learned
afterward were on their way to Cleburne, Texas, after 2500 head of
cattle, to stock a range on the Cimarron in the southwestern part of
Kansas.
Yes, Sheridan was right. We hunters were making it possible for this to
be done. As I turned away from this inspiring scene I felt that I had
witnessed the greatest animal show on earth.
Coming on up the trail to the Antelope hills, we crossed the South
Canadian and left the trail, taking a northwest course across a
trackless broken country to Commission creek, where we heard the sound
of the big fifties and the more rifle-like crack of the 44's. Our first
night's camp on this creek was with Wrong-wheel Jones. He had been in
this camp ten days and had 600 hides, an average of sixty per day, with
three men employed.
There were three Joneses on the range at this time. Buffalo Jones,
Dirty-face Jones, and Wrong-wheel Jones. The latter got his nickname
the summer before. He had broken down the right hind wheel of his
wagon. The Carr & Causey outfit came along by his camp the day the
accident happened. They told him they had passed an abandoned wagon
just like his in some sand-hills on Red Deer, about eight miles back,
and that by following their tracks back he could find it easily. So
Jones harnessed up his ponies, rode one, and led the other, taking
along a pair of stretchers and a chain, went the eight miles, and found
the wagon. And the _left_ hind wheel was the only one of the four but
what was entirely useless.
He came back to camp and said that "The _right_ hind wheel had six
spokes broken in it, and that he couldn't use it at all. The left-hand
hind wheel would have done first-rate; but it was for the wrong side."
His two men, that were in camp at the time, commenced laughing at him.
"What are you fellers laffin' about?"
One of the men, known on the range as "Morning-star Dan," asked him,
"Why he did not bring the left wheel along?"
"What do you reckon I want of two left hind wheels?" he replied.
At this the two men fairly roared with laughter. Jones would look at
them and then at his broken wheel. Gradually _the truth dawned upon
him_, and he joined in the laughter, and said, "Why, yes, I could turn
that other wheel around and make it fit, couldn't I?"
So he made another trip and this time he dragged in the _left_ hind
wheel. From that time on he was known as "Wrong-wheel Jones."
There were five other outfits, besides Wrong-wheel, on this creek. And,
as it was close to the military trail, the hunters would go a long way
for hides and bring them in from ten or twelve miles distance, when
they could not find them nearer their camp. This was in order to get
better freight rates to the railroad at Dodge City.
Charlie Cook and I decided to pull west by a little north for Wolf
creek, where we arrived the evening of the day we left Wrong-wheel
Jones's camp. Here was fine hunting. We had been at this, our first
Wolf creek camp, about twenty days before we heard another hunter's gun
in close proximity to our camp. In that twenty days we had secured 500
hides, or an average of twenty-five per day.
I started out to do the killing the next morning after we came to this
camp. There were buffaloes in sight in nearly every direction. About
three-fourths of a mile east of camp and near the route we come over
the day before, there was a band of some 300 head. I chose them on
account of the wind and the lay of the ground. I got up quite close
and had as fine a first shot as I ever had, before or since. They were
headed to the wind, and I had come on to them quartering it. There
was a large cow standing somewhat in the lead. I pulled down for the
regulation spot, and fired. To my astonishment, I shot her in the jaw.
The shot startled the herd, and the cow, raising her head as high as
she could and holding it high, off to one side, began turning around
and around not knowing or caring where she was going—shaking her head
violently as if she had Saint Vitus dance, and all the time coming
closer to me each circle she made. I whaled away at her again, this
time breaking her right front leg above the knee. At this shot she
bolted past me, running in a straight line toward our camp with about
fifty head following her. I began pumping lead at them as fast as I
could load and fire, until they were over 200 yards from me and not an
animal fell.
I straightened up, picked up my rest-sticks, and, in looking around saw
that the others, that had not followed the cow, were nearly half a mile
away, and walking slowly.
On looking to what had been my rear while I was shooting, I saw a small
band slowly moving toward me, about one-fourth of a mile distant. I
stooped over, and taking long strides I hurried to cross the wind so
that they might not scent me, and I gained a point of vantage about 200
yards from where they were grazing along very slowly.
And here now I would make a killing. Taking the best shot that
presented itself, I fired and the bullet went away to the right and
kicked up a dust two hundred yards beyond them. They all turned back
the way they came from, and I jumped up and ran, following them until
they stopped, when I dropped flat upon the ground. Some had turned
their heads and were looking back in the direction where I lay.
I gradually rose up into a sitting position as soon as they quit
looking, and shot at the nearest one, and off the whole band went.
I gave them six parting shots and not a bison fell. What kind of a
hunter had Charlie Cook for a partner? Great Scott! here was a golden
opportunity, and no results. Then I got fidgety and went to camp.
Charlie had been watching me through my field-glasses, and when he saw
that the broken-legged cow and the band that followed her would cross
the creek a little way below camp, he struck down the creek with a belt
full of cartridges and seventy-five extra rounds in a haversack. Just
as they all got out a little way from the west bank of the creek and
had slowed down to a slow walk, he shot the leader through the lungs,
and the next one the same way. Noticing the broken-legged cow about
the middle of the band, as it was strung out, he gave her a shot. By
this time the first one he had shot lay down and others were hooking
her, and the result was he got what is called "a stand," and killed
thirty-seven of them, and could easily have exterminated the band, but
what were left of them were mostly yearlings and two-year-olds which
would be called kip hides, the price of which we were warned would not
bring to exceed 75 cents apiece that year, and the buyers claimed they
did not want them at all.
I could hear the sound of Charlie's gun as I was on my road to camp.
But I did not think of him in connection with it, on account of his
affected eye; but on arriving at camp I learned it was he.
The boys had both teams hitched up and were about to start in the
direction I had been shooting.
I said, "Boys, I did not kill one; I'm no good."
Jimmie said: "Maybe your gun is no good. Did you look at the sights
before you left camp? Charlie did the same thing last fall on the
Washita. He shot away about thirty cartridges before he knew what was
the matter."
I picked up my gun and looked, and sure enough! the front bead had
slipped in the slot on the gun-barrel.
There was a large cotton wood tree about 110 yards from my wagon. I had
the Mexican tack a box-lid onto the tree, with a charcoal in the center
of it. The circle was eight inches in diameter. I took a rest off of
the hind wheel of the wagon, fired, and missed the tree.
Just then Charlie came into camp, and finding out what my troubles
were, he said, "I am glad you found it was not your fault."
We moved the bead block into the slot to where it had slipped from, and
I fired again, getting inside the circle this time. Then I was pleased,
and confidence in myself was again restored.
We all went to the killing, and were as busy as bees until the
thirty-seven were skinned and the hides were in camp. That same evening
I killed thirteen more buffaloes, and the next day eighteen more.
After the experience related above I never picked up my gun but what
I would see to it that the sights were all right. All that summer I
did most of the killing, but mostly with Charlie's gun; for my own gun
had hoodooed me. If I made a wild shot, I examined the front sight.
Any hunter will make wild shots sometimes. But that particular gun got
on my nerves. I would keep thinking of and talking about that lost
opportunity.
So after a few days Charlie said: "Now, John, when you do the killing,
take my gun and leave me yours;" which I did thereafter.
Jimmie had a condemned army gun, the old Long Tom; and Pedro, the
Mexican, had a Remington revolver that he called his pistolie.
Frequently, in a killing, the hunter would leave badly wounded
buffaloes when in a hurry to go to another band. In such cases the
skinners would give them their last shot, if they were not dead when
they arrived on the skinning-ground.
After we had been in this camp about twenty days, the hunting was not
as profitable as we liked, and hearing other guns down the creek we
decided to hunt for another camp. Charlie and I went up the creek a
good half-day's ride and found fair hunting, to which we moved our
camp the next day, and the day following I made the biggest killing of
all my three years' hunting.
It happened about midday. The weather was quite hot; for it was now the
latter part of June. These buffaloes were undoubtedly very thirsty, for
they came down to the creek from a broad plain to the northwest, and
had probably been bombarded from the Beaver creek waters to the north
when they were in a thirsty condition.
There must have been more than a thousand of them. They came on to the
creek in a wild, pell-mell run. After drinking they came out on a flat
about 150 yards from the creek, on the opposite side from where they
entered it. There they stopped and commenced lying down. By the time I
got up within good gunshot, perhaps half of them were lying down. At
this time they had all shed their last year's growth of hair. Some that
were standing seemed to be sound asleep. I was not more than eighty
steps away when I began shooting. They were a mixed herd—very old
and young bulls, old and younger cows, then all ages from red spring
calves up. I shot a tremendously large bull first. All he did was to
"cringe" a little. Not half of those lying down arose at the report of
the gun. After making three good dead shots those closest to me moved
off a little toward the creek. Getting in a good shot at the leader, I
stopped him and that stopped the rest.
I now had, what I had so often heard about but had never actually
seen before, _a stand_. Charlie Hart, while I was with him, had given
me some good pointers how to manage "a stand," if I ever got one.
He told me not to shoot fast enough to heat the gun-barrel to an
over-expansion; to always try to hit the outside ones; to shoot at any
that started to walk off, unless I thought they were mortally wounded.
He said that "with an over-expanded gun-barrel the bullet would go
wobbling, and would be liable to break a leg; and that would start a
bolt."
After I had killed twenty-five that I knew of, the smoke from the gun
commenced to hang low, and was slow in disappearing. So I shifted my
position and, in doing so, got still closer. And I know that many of
the herd saw me move. I had shot perhaps half a dozen times, when, as
I was reloading, I heard a keen whistle behind me. Looking around I
saw Charlie Cook. He was on his all-fours, creeping up to me. He said:
"Go ahead; take it easy; I am coming with more cartridges." He crawled
right up to my side with my gun and an extra sack of ammunition for me,
and a canteen of water. He asked if the gun was shooting all right. I
told him "Yes; but the barrel is pretty warm." He told me to try my own
gun a while and let his gun cool a little. We exchanged guns, and I
commenced again.
Even while I was shooting buffaloes that had not been shot at all,
some would lie down apparently unconcerned about the destruction going
on around them. I fired slowly and deliberately. Charlie poured some
water from the canteen down the muzzle of his gun; then pulled down
the breech-block and let the water run out. He then ran a greased rag
in the eyelet of the wiping-stick and swabbed the barrel out, leaving
the breech-block open for a while, thus cooling the barrel, in order to
have that gun ready for use when my own gun got too warm.
About this time I shot an old cow that at the crack of the gun bolted
down the creek. I shot at her three times in rapid succession. The
third shot broke her back just forward of the coupling.
I laid the gun down and said, "Charlie, finish the job."
He said "No, take my gun and go ahead, this is the greatest sight I
ever beheld."
I took his gun, and without thinking put in a 44 cartridge and fired.
Then he put the cartridge-sack in front of me, saying, "You used one of
your 44's that time." And as I pulled the breech-block down to put in
another cartridge, a bull, about a six-year-old, started walking toward
us, with his ferocious-looking head raised high. Before I could divine
his intentions I fired, and he fell almost as suddenly as the cow whose
back I had broken.
I would shoot five or six times, wipe the gun, and we would comment, in
a low tone, on the apparent stupidity of the herd. Some came back and
stood by the dead ones. Some would hook them as they lay dead. I kept
this work up for as much as an hour and a quarter, when I changed guns
again. And at the first shot from my own gun I broke the left hind leg
above the knee of a big bull that was standing on the outer edge of
the herd, about ninety yards from me. He commenced "cavorting" around,
jamming up against others, and the leg flopping as he hopped about.
He finally broke in through the midst of the band and my _stand_. They
all began to follow him, and I with the big 50 that I now took from
Charlie, commenced a rear attack, Charlie putting cartridges in his
belt which I was wearing; and with the belt about half full and several
in one pocket, and a half-dozen or so in my left hand, I moved up to
a dead buffalo, and got in several good shots; when I moved again, on
through the dead ones, to the farthermost one, and fired three more
shots and quit. As I walked back through where the carcasses lay the
thickest, I could not help but think that I had done wrong to make such
a slaughter for the hides alone.
In counting them just as they lay there, their eyes glassy in death, I
had killed _eighty-eight_; and several left the ground with more bad
than slight wounds.
Jimmie Dunlap and Pedro Laredo had driven up to within less than a
quarter of a mile, and had witnessed more than half the slaughter.
I helped all hands at skinning until an hour from sundown; and, being
nearly exhausted, lay down on the buffalo-grass, with a fresh-skinned
hide rolled up for a pillow, and stretched myself out for a rest.
My nerves had been at a high tension; the heat of the day had been
oppressive; then stooping over so much while taking off the hides I
got dizzy; all of which contributed to my utter fatigue. The other
three men worked on until it got too dark to see well; then we all
went to camp, having skinned, all told, fifty-nine of the eighty-eight
carcasses. I had killed bulls principally, on account of their hides
being more valuable than the others. Sometimes I had to kill cows that
were on the outside, and at times they would obstruct a shot at a bull.
The next morning early, Charlie, Jimmie and the Mexican drove out and
finished the skinning, while I reloaded shells. Before noon everybody
was in camp and the 88 hides pegged out and drying.
We hunted from this camp with varying success until the middle of July,
when we moved south on the Canadian and camped on Red Deer, near where
the Wood families and I camped the winter before with the soldiers and
Kiowas. About a week before we made this move we went back and poisoned
the hides at the first camp. Also, those at the second camp on Wolf
creek. The day before we left it, Charlie and I had ridden south from
Wolf creek to the edge of the Canadian breaks and saw a few scattering
bands. But we thought there would be plenty of buffaloes in that region
later on.
The day we moved, the Mexican wanted some antelope-hides to make
himself a suit of clothes, and started ahead with my gun and belt,
he taking the course that we told him we would take to cross the
table-land, between the two streams. If my recollection serves me
right, from where we were and the direction we would travel it was
about ten or twelve miles. When Pedro handed me his "pistolie" I said,
"Now, don't get lost; keep in sight of the wagons." He said he would.
The antelopes were plentiful, indeed, along the route we were going;
and off he went.
A few days before we moved, I had gone up Wolf creek about six miles
from camp, this being very near the head of it, and while there I came
across an abandoned Arapaho camp. The Indians had left it so suddenly
the summer before—that being the summer of the Indian War of 1874, when
they received such a severe punishment from the hunters near the Adobe
Walls,—that they did not take time to move all their effects, and the
camp for half a mile up and down the creek was strewn with tin cups,
plates, stew-pans, camp-kettles or _brass kettles_, and several Dutch
ovens, besides axes and hoes. I picked up one of these brass kettles
and took it to camp.
We had been cooking our dried apples in a black sheet-iron kettle, and
the apple-sauce had a dark, grimy look. I had a vivid recollection of a
beautiful well-polished brass kettle that my mother used to cook fruit
in, and in which she made fine preserves; but my observation went no
farther. Now I thought we will cook our dried apples in this and our
sauce will retain its natural dried-fruit color.
It so happened that the evening before we moved we cooked a kettle of
dried apples and set them to one side with a lid over them. They were
not thought of at the morning meal, nor until we were packing up to
move camp. On this particular day I hauled the entire mess-kit. There
was a five-gallon keg of water in each wagon, and when all was ready we
pulled out of camp, Charlie and Jimmie in the lead.
After traveling about four miles I heard the report of a gun off to
my left and rear. Upon bringing my field-glasses to a focus in the
direction the report came from, I saw it was the Mexican. I said,
"Charlie, you and Jimmie might go ahead to camp and maybe you'll get a
chance to kill a few buffaloes. I'll mosey along slowly, and keep an
eye on the Greaser; for he might get lost."
The two started on, and I watched the Mexican and saw that he was
skinning an antelope. After he got through he threw the hide over his
shoulder and started on south. When he passed a line east and west
of me, I drove on, turning a little left from the route Charlie had
taken. This I did in order to get closer to the Mexican; also to gain
a high point of land ahead of me. I saw him skinning another antelope.
All this was taking time; and as it was late when we left camp, it
was now near noon, and I was hungry. I went to the hind end of the
wagon, opened the mess-box, got some bread, took a spoon and dived
into the apple-sauce. Eating out of the brass kettle from one side, I
ate several large spoonfuls of it with my bread, then poured a quart
cup full of water out of the keg, drank about half of it; then dived
into the apple-sauce again, and ate until my appetite was perfectly
satisfied.
I then got up on the spring seat and looked for the Mexican, but could
not see him. Thinking now that he was acting in a sensible-like way,
and that he had gone on south, I started ahead, and had not gone far
until a strange sickening feeling came over me. The sun was boiling
down and the heat radiating in front of me. I was getting dizzy-headed
and "squeamish" in my stomach. I could hardly retain a sitting
position, but before it was too late I stopped the team, climbed down
and crawled under the wagon. Sick? Yes, unto death, as I then thought.
Whether I had gone to sleep or was unconscious I am unable to say. It
was late in the afternoon before I came to a realization of anything.
The first I knew was: The Mexican was bathing my face with a wet towel.
He spoke fairly good English and said to me, "you are sick."
My sight coming to me, I asked him to get me some strong salt water,
which I drank. It was an excellent emetic, for I was soon relieved of
all that poisoned apple-sauce and sour-dough bread that I had eaten.
Presently I could sit up, and the dizziness had passed; but I was, oh,
so weak! Pedro told me he had come to me nearly an hour before. He had
loosened the horses from the wagon and taken the wagon-sheet and hung
it over the side of the wagon the sun was shining against, and had been
washing my face, neck, and arms for some time. He said: "Now let me
help you into the wagon and I will hitch up and we will go to camp."
He helped me to get a reclining position, and started. After he had
started, he asked me if I knew which side of us the other wagon-track
was on. I told him, "To the right." When he found it he stopped and
asked me how I was feeling. I replied, "Very sick. Don't you eat any
of that apple-sauce. It has poisoned me." The fact was, I had been
verdigris-poisoned from the brass kettle; and for several days I was
an invalid without any appetite. And fifteen years elapsed before I
could eat apple-sauce again.
It was now the breeding season of the buffaloes, which was July and
August. And there was a constant muttering noise, night and day, made
by the bellowing, or, more properly speaking, the roo roo-oo of the
bulls, which in the individual case could not be heard in ordinary
atmospherical conditions above a half-mile, but when uttered by the
thousands has been known to be heard for twenty miles.
The mosquitoes punished our horses so severely at nights, and the
green-head flies by day, that we decided to move southeast, to the top
of the Washita divide. Charlie's left eye was gradually covering with
a film, and he wanted to go home and have it operated on; so after we
had moved to the divide, we established our camp on the prairie 200
yards from the water of a big spring that Buck Wood and I found the
winter before when living in the cabin we had built. We left Jimmie
and the Mexican here to do what they could with Charlie's and my gun.
Taking the "pistolie" and Long Tom we went to the White Deer camp, and,
loading all the hides on the two wagons, took them to Springer's ranch
and sold them. We offered Springer our Wolf creek hunt, but he told
us he did not have the money to pay for them; but, said he, "George
Aikin's outfit will camp here to-night, going to Fort Elliott, with a
load of Government supplies; and maybe you can get him to haul them to
Dodge City."
It was nearly night, and while we were talking Aikin rode up. I had
met him before, during the past winter, at Sweet Water, when I hired
to Hart. I told him how we were situated, and he said that if we gave
him the same rates as from Elliott and twenty dollars besides he would
take all of the Wolf creek hides to Dodge City. He wanted to lay by and
rest and graze up his teams at Commission creek, on his way back; and
that he would load the train with hides at Sweet Water, less the number
of wagons it required for our hides.
So it was settled that way. It was arranged that Charlie would be at
Springer's when Aiken came back and pilot him to the hides. Aiken left
us, saying he would be back to Springer's in eight days.
Charlie and I went back to our camp by way of the cabin; but it did not
look natural. Nettles had grown up by one side of it ten feet high. A
wild gourd vine had climbed over the roof and the wood-rats had piled
one corner of the inside high up with chips, bark, sticks, turkey
feathers, and pieces of bones that we had cracked to remove the marrow
from. The big cottonwood grove was in full leaf; and as we drove on in
the direction of camp we saw many flocks of young wild turkeys.
We arrived in camp about the middle of the afternoon; although we could
have covered the actual distance the nearest way in less than three
hours. The boys were out of camp when we got there, but came in late
in the evening, having killed and skinned thirteen buffaloes, while we
were gone.
When Charlie and Jimmie drove out the next morning to get the hides,
there was a young calf standing by one of the carcasses, its mother
being one of the victims of yesterday's work. It still had the reddish
color that all buffalo calves have in their infancy, not obtaining
their regular blackish brown until in the fall of the year, when they
are very fat, plump and stocky, and take on a glossy look. I have
watched buffaloes many times during my three years' hunt, not with a
covetous eye at the time, but to study the characteristics of the
animal; and I do not remember ever seeing buffalo calves frisky,
gamboling, and "cavorting" around in playful glee like domestic calves.
Perhaps their doom had been transmitted to them! Yes, this was the
pathetic side of the question. And thousands of these little creatures
literally starved to death, their mothers being killed from the time
they were a day old on up to the time they could rustle their own
living on the range. Charlie killed this calf and salted the hide to
take home for a rug. But, personally, I should want no such reminder of
the last buffalo-grounds, especially one gotten in that way. Charlie
and I settled up in this camp, I taking over the supplies of all kinds
we then had on hand. He was to go to Dodge with the Wolf creek hides,
make the sale of them, pay the freight bill, pay Jimmie my half of
his salary, and send my share of the hunt in money to Fort Elliott,
together with half that was due the Mexican for what hides he had
skinned.
The day before Aiken was to be at Springer's, we broke camp, and all
pulled for that place. When Aiken came along he informed me that there
was fine hunting on the Washita, at the mouth of Gageby creek. Bidding
Charlie Cook and young Dunlap good-by, the Mexican and I pulled for
the mouth of Gageby by way of the Washita ranch, on the trail to Fort
Elliott.
Here I met Rankin Moore, the owner of the place. This is the man who
saved my life a little over a year after. Here I learned that my
friends, the Woods, just a few days before, had sold and quitclaimed
their interest near the mouth of Gageby to the Andersons from the
Picket Wire country of southeast Colorado, who were preparing to start
a horse-and-cattle ranch. The Woods had gone 200 miles southeast
and off from the then last and only remaining frontier of the Old
Southwest. I was disappointed in not again meeting these Samaritans of
the prairies.
Pedro and I pulled down the Washita on the south side of the stream,
and crossed the Gageby near where it flows into the former stream. Here
we camped among some large scattering cottonwood trees.
We were now near the one-hundredth meridian, and close to
danger-ground. We had been in this camp about ten days and had been
going from three to eight miles for what hides we got. Some days we got
five hides, and from that up to ten, which was the most we got any one
day.
The tenth day, toward evening, as we were pegging out the six hides we
got that day, a band of Cheyenne Indians rode into our camp, saying
"How, John; heap buffalo." At the same time holding out a long official
envelope toward me. We were both down on our hands and knees cutting
holes, driving pegs, and stretching the hides. The suddenness of their
arrival startled us. My gun was about twenty feet from me. As I rose up
I started toward it, whereupon the Indian, holding out the envelope,
said, "No, no shoot; heap good," and turning the envelope toward me,
said excitedly: "You see 'em! You see 'em!"—pointing to the envelope
and saying, "_Big white man, heap chief_." I picked up the envelope,
which was unsealed, and found out that it contained a pass from the
commanding officer at Fort Reno, Indian Territory, "For the bearer and
his family to visit James Springer, on the Canadian river, northwest
of Springer's. And they must follow the Canadian river, both going and
coming, and are not to be absent from their agency but twenty days."
They were then ten miles south of the Canadian, on the Washita. After
reading the pass and handing it back; I said, "wayno" (bueno), a
Spanish word for _good_, known far and near by hunters, trappers,
soldiers, cowboys, and all tribes of Indians from the Rio Grande
to British America. But it was more commonly expressed by the word
"skookum," by the Crows, Blackfeet, and extreme northern tribes.
"Skookum" is Chinook for "good." When I said "wayno," he repeated the
word after me; then, pointing just a little way upstream, he said:
"Me campa!" Away they went with their travois outfit about 200 yards,
and camped. There were twenty-two of them, men, women, and children.
Three young bucks lingered at our camp, and examined and talked among
themselves about everything that attracted their attention. My bundle
of eagle-feathers was in sight and caught their eyes. There was a
flour-sack wrapped around them; and one of the young fellows picked up
the bundle and brought it to where I was now cooking supper. He talked
his own language, whatever that was, and made signs that he wanted me
to take the sack off. I did so, and he examined them closely; then he
bundled them up and said, "You swap?"
I had learned a good deal of the universal Indian sign-language from
the Osages, in southeastern Kansas, and had picked up a little more
from the Navajoes that were camped a short time near where I was once
in New Mexico.
I now commenced to make use of it; and by signs I told him I would
trade. When I gave the sign for "yes," he stepped closer to me and in
pantomime he asked, "How much?"
I crooked my right thumb and forefinger so as to bring them in a
circle, thus making the Indian sign for dollar. Then I held up both
hands, palms toward him, all fingers and thumbs spread out, thus
counting _ten_; then I quickly shut both hands and opened them again,
then let them drop to my sides, indicating that $20 was my price. I
think he had as good an idea of what $20 really meant as he did of
where the "happy hunting-ground" was located.
They went to their own camp, and the next morning the one I talked with
came back, leading a pinto pony. He wanted the feathers, and goodness
knows how much sugar, coffee, tobacco, and powder. I measured out a
pint of green coffee, and one quart of sugar; placed the eagle-feathers
beside them, and sat down upon my ammunition-box and assumed a far-off
look.
I had traded a good deal with the Osages; so I played Injun with
Injun. I had looked the pony well over, seeing he was sound and large
enough for a pack-horse, but too light for a saddle-pony for a man of
my weight. Presently the Indian called my attention to a half-sack of
flour which we were using from. It was standing by a tree. I got up,
and, picking up the bread-pan, I turned it bottom-side up, placing it
over the flour-sack and again sat down on the ammunition-box. He stood
there a little while, then went up to a powder-can and made signs for
powder. I got up, picked up the can, and set it in the hind end of the
wagon, went and sat down again on the ammunition-box. He stood for a
moment, then commenced laughing. I looked as sober as a judge and as
wise as an owl. He picked up the feathers, examined them again, and
could stand the nervous tension no longer. He motioned me to get a
rope. I told him I wanted the one on the pony. He wanted some tobacco.
I made a sign across the fingers of my left hand, showing how much I
would give him. He nodded that stoical face and head, and the trade was
made.
He wanted me to go to his camp with him, where he showed me his
father's eagle-feather war-bonnet, and gave me to understand that now
he would have one of his own. I judged him to be about 22 or 23 years
of age. He was about 5 feet 11 inches tall, straight as an arrow, and
withal had a rather pleasant countenance, of a serious look. His face
was not hideously, but gaudily, painted with red and yellow vermilion.
He wore a bear-claw necklace and the tail of a chapparal bird on the
top of his head, just back of the scalp-lock. His wrists were encircled
with broad, thin, highly polished steel bands. His breech-clout was
nicely beaded and porcupine-quilled on front and rear flap. Among his
tribe he was evidently a person of some distinction; but to me he was
_just an Indian_.
When this band broke camp they struck northwest for Springer's. After
they got over the divide the Mexican and I hooked up and loaded all our
camp outfit, and what hides we could pull, and struck out for the head
of Gageby, on the military trail. Pedro and Pinto with my new saddle
lent considerable dignity to my outfit, he riding ahead, or off to one
side, as fancy pleased him.
He called himself the scout. We camped near the head of the creek,
and the next day went back for the rest of our hides. Here I made
headquarters until the first of September, going as far east as we
dared on account of the Indian Territory line, our camp being twelve
miles west of this line, and about the same distance from Fort Elliott.
Some days we went west, taking our camp along. If we got a few hides by
noon or a little after, we returned to camp; if not, we kept on, the
Mexican scouting for water, which, when found, we camped by overnight.
Thus we put in the time until the first of September, when we pulled to
Fort Elliott and Sweet Water. Here the Mexican fell in company with
two of his race, and went with them to New Mexico.
In October I pulled south with two other outfits. We followed down the
one-hundredth meridian line, keeping an average of about fifteen miles
west on the Texas side to Red river, thence to the South fork of Pease
river, where Willis Crawford and I went into camp for the winter.
I furnished everything and gave him a one-third interest in the hunt.
We had fair success, and, all in all, as good a time as hunters could
enjoy. We had fair hunting the most of the winter; but we did not rush
matters as Hart did.
Freed's camp was five miles up the river from ours. Al. Waite and Frank
Perry were three miles down the same stream; and north of us three
miles, at some springs, was Dirty-face Jones.
Many times during the winter we visited each other's camps and passed
many pleasant evenings in the buffalo-hide tepees or dugouts, as the
case might be, exchanging experiences of the hunt; commenting upon the
events occurring in the outside world when we occasionally heard of
them. All this, interspersed with story-telling and song-singing, until
the "wee sma' hours."
The turkeys in this region were just the opposite from those about our
last winter's camp near the Salt Fork of the Brazos. Here they were
tender, juicy and sweet; but not nearly so tame. But it would have been
a very poor hunter indeed that in an hour or two's absence from camp
could not bring in two or more of the big fat prizes.
This was a beautiful, mild winter, with the exception of two northers,
one in November, the other in February, each lasting two or three days.
On Christmas Day, and for several days before, the days were quite
warm and the nights clear, with bright starlight, and pleasant. The
sun usually rose from a perfectly clear sky, and passed down behind
the horizon leaving a soft golden halo in its wake. This surely was
the _American Hunters' Paradise_. And they were winning the Great
Southwest. We hunters often talked about the future of this great,
vast uninhabited region, with all its salt, gypsum, alkali and
strongly impregnated sulphur waters, scattered over this vast expanse
of territory 200 miles in width and 350 miles long, in western Texas
alone. There were thousands of beautiful fresh-water springs of cool,
pure water, and many babbling brooks where several varieties of fish
abounded.
West of the pecan and oak shinnery ("cross-timber") belt, even on
to the eastern escarpment of the Llano Estacado, were thousands of
beautiful cottonwood groves, many wild plum bushes, and much mesquite.