MINGLING WITH THE EXODUS
By noon the herd had grazed out five miles on its way. The boys were so
anxious to get off that on my return the camp was deserted with the
exception of the cook and the horse-wrangler, none even returning for
dinner. Before leaving I had lunched at Los Lobos with its owner, and
on reaching the wagon, Levering and I assisted the cook to harness in
and start the commissary. The general course of the Nueces River was
southeast by northwest, and as our route lay on the latter angle, the
herd would follow up the valley for the first day. Once outside the
boundaries of our camp of the past week, the grass matted the ground
with its rank young growth. As far as the eye could see, the mesas,
clothed in the verdure of spring, rolled in long swells away to the
divides. Along the river and in the first bottom, the timber and
mesquite thickets were in leaf and blossom, while on the outlying
prairies the only objects which dotted this sea of green were range
cattle and an occasional band of horses.
The start was made on the 27th of March. By easy drives and within a
week, we crossed the “Sunset” Railway, about thirty miles to the
westward of the ranch in Medina. On reaching the divide between the
Leona and Frio rivers, we sighted our first herd of trail cattle,
heading northward. We learned that some six herds had already passed
upward on the main Frio, while a number of others were reported as
having taken the east fork of that river. The latter stream almost
paralleled the line between Medina and Uvalde counties, and as we
expected some word from headquarters, we crossed over to the east fork.
When westward of and opposite the ranch, Runt Pickett was sent in for
any necessary orders that might be waiting. By leaving us early in the
evening he could reach headquarters that night and overtake us before
noon the next day. We grazed leisurely forward the next morning,
killing as much time as possible, and Pickett overtook us before the
wagon had even gone into camp for dinner. Lovell had not stopped on his
return from the west, but had left with the depot agent at the home
station a letter for the ranch. From its contents we learned that the
other two Buford herds had started from Uvalde, Sponsilier in the lead,
one on the 24th and the other the following day. Local rumors were
encouraging in regard to grass and water to the westward, and the
intimation was clear that if favorable reports continued, the two
Uvalde herds would intersect an old trail running from the head of
Nueces Canon to the Llano River. Should they follow this route there
was little hope of their coming into the main western trail before
reaching the Colorado River. Sponsilier was a daring fellow, and if
there was a possible chance to get through beyond the borders of any
settlement, he was certain to risk it.
The letter contained no personal advice. Years of experience in trail
matters had taught my employer that explicit orders were often harmful.
The emergencies to be met were of such a varied nature that the best
method was to trust to an outfit worming its way out of any situation
which confronted it. From the information disclosed, it was evident
that the other Buford herds were then somewhere to the northwest, and
possibly over a hundred miles distant. Thus freed from any restraint,
we held a due northward course for several days, or until we
encountered some rocky country. Water was plentiful and grass fairly
good, but those flinty hills must be avoided or sorefooted beeves would
be the result. I had seen trails of blood left by cattle from sandy
countries on encountering rock, and now the feet of ours were a second
consideration to their stomachs. But long before the herd reached this
menace, Morg Tussler and myself, scouting two full days in advance,
located a safe route to the westward. Had we turned to the other hand,
we should have been forced into the main trail below Fredericksburg,
and we preferred the sea-room of the boundless plain. From every
indication and report, this promised to be the banner year in the
exodus of cattle from the South to the then new Northwest. This latter
section was affording the long-looked-for outlet, by absorbing the
offerings of cattle which came up from Texas over the trail, and
marking an epoch barely covering a single decade.
Turning on a western angle, a week’s drive brought us out on a high
tableland. Veering again to the north, we snailed along through a
delightful country, rich in flora and the freshness of the season. From
every possible elevation, we scanned the west in the hope of sighting
some of the herd which had followed up the main Frio, but in vain.
Sweeping northward at a leisurely gait, the third week out we sighted
the Blue Mountains, the first familiar landmark on our course. As the
main western trail skirted its base on the eastward, our position was
easily established.
So far the cattle were well behaved, not a run, and only a single
incident occurring worth mention. About half an hour before dawn one
morning, the cook aroused the camp with the report that the herd was
missing. The beeves had been bedded within two hundred yards of the
wagon, and the last watch usually hailed the rekindling of the cook’s
fire as the first harbinger of day. But on this occasion the absence of
the usual salutations from the bed-ground aroused Parent’s suspicion.
He rushed into camp, and laboring under the impression that the cattle
had stampeded, trampled over our beds, yelling at the top of his lungs.
Aroused in the darkness from heavy sleep, bewildered by a bright fire
burning and a crazy man shouting, “The beeves have stampeded! the
herd’s gone! Get up, everybody!” we were almost thrown into a panic.
Many of the boys ran for their night-horses, but Clay Zilligan and I
fell on the cook and shook the statement out of him that the cattle had
left their beds. This simplified the situation, but before I could
recall the men, several of them had reached the bed-ground. As fast as
horses could be secured, others dashed through the lighted circle and
faded into the darkness. From the flickering of matches it was evident
that the boys were dismounting and looking for some sign of trouble.
Zilligan was swearing like a pirate, looking for his horse in the murky
night; but instead of any alarm, oaths and derision greeted our ears as
the men returned to camp. Halting their horses within the circle of the
fire, Dorg Seay said to the cook:
“Neal, the next time you find a mare’s nest, keep the secret to
yourself. I don’t begrudge losing thirty minutes’ beauty sleep, but I
hate to be scared out of a year’s growth. Haven’t you got cow-sense
enough to know that if those beeves had run, they’d have shook the
earth? If they had stampeded, that alarm clock of yours wouldn’t be a
circumstance to the barking of the boys’ guns. Why, the cattle haven’t
been gone thirty minutes. You can see where they got up and then
quietly walked away. The ground where they lay is still steaming and
warm. They were watered a little too soon yesterday and naturally got
up early this morning. The boys on guard didn’t want to alarm the
outfit, and just allowed the beeves to graze off on their course. When
day breaks, you’ll see they ain’t far away, and in the right direction.
Parent, if I didn’t sabe cows better than you do, I’d confine my
attention to a cotton patch.”
Seay had read the sign aright. When day dawned the cattle were in plain
view about a mile distant. On the return of the last guard to camp,
Vick Wolf explained the situation in a few words. During their watch
the herd had grown restless, many of the cattle arising; and knowing
that dawn was near at hand, the boys had pushed the sleepy ones off
their beds and started them feeding. The incident had little effect on
the irrepressible Parent, who seemed born to blunder, yet gifted with a
sunny disposition which atoned for his numerous mistakes.
With the Blue Mountains as our guiding star, we kept to the westward of
that landmark, crossing the Llano River opposite some Indian mounds. On
reaching the divide between this and the next water, we sighted two
dust-clouds to the westward. They were ten to fifteen miles distant,
but I was anxious to hear any word of Sponsilier or Forrest, and sent
Jake Blair to make a social call. He did not return until the next day,
and reported the first herd as from the mouth of the Pecos, and the
more distant one as belonging to Jesse Presnall. Blair had stayed all
night with the latter, and while its foreman was able to locate at
least a dozen trail herds in close proximity, our two from Uvalde had
neither been seen nor heard of. Baffled again, necessity compelled us
to turn within touch of some outfitting point. The staples of life were
running low in our commissary, no opportunity having presented itself
to obtain a new supply since we left the ranch in Medina over a month
before. Consequently, after crossing the San Saba, we made our first
tack to the eastward.
Brady City was an outfitting point for herds on the old western trail.
On coming opposite that frontier village, Parent and I took the wagon
and went in after supplies, leaving the herd on its course, paralleling
the former route. They had instructions to camp on Brady Creek that
night. On reaching the supply point, there was a question if we could
secure the simple staples needed. The drive that year had outstripped
all calculations, some half-dozen chuck-wagons being in waiting for the
arrival of a freight outfit which was due that morning. The nearest
railroad was nearly a hundred miles to the eastward, and all supplies
must be freighted in by mule and ox teams. While waiting for the
freight wagons, which were in sight several miles distant, I made
inquiry of the two outfitting stores if our Buford herds had passed. If
they had, no dealings had taken place on the credit of Don Lovell,
though both merchants knew him well. Before the freight outfit arrived,
some one took Abb Blocker, a trail foreman for his brother John, to
task for having an odd ox in his wheel team. The animal was a raw,
unbroken “7L” bull, surly and chafing under the yoke, and attracted
general attention. When several friends of Blocker, noticing the brand,
began joking him, he made this explanation: “No, I don’t claim him; but
he came into my herd the other night and got to hossing my steers
around. We couldn’t keep him out, and I thought if he would just go
along, why we’d put him under the yoke and let him hoss that
chuck-wagon to amuse himself. One of my wheelers was getting a little
tenderfooted, anyhow.”
On the arrival of the freight outfit, short shift was made in
transferring a portion of the cargo to the waiting chuck-wagons. As we
expected to reach Abilene, a railroad point, within a week, we took on
only a small stock of staple supplies. Having helped ourselves, the
only delay was in getting a clerk to look over our appropriation, make
out an itemized bill, and receive a draft on my employer. When finally
the merchant in person climbed into our wagon and took a list of the
articles, Parent started back to overtake the herd. I remained behind
several hours, chatting with the other foremen.
None of the other trail bosses had seen anything of Lovell’s other
herds, though they all knew him personally or by reputation, and
inquired if he was driving again in the same road brand. By general
agreement, in case of trouble, we would pick up each other’s cattle;
and from half a cent to a cent a head was considered ample remuneration
in buying water in Texas. Owing to the fact that many drovers had
shipped to Red River, it was generally believed that there would be no
congestion of cattle south of that point. All herds were then keeping
well to the westward, some even declaring their intention to go through
the Panhandle until the Canadian was reached.
Two days later we came into the main trail at the crossing of the
Colorado River. Before we reached it, several ominous dust-clouds hung
on our right for hours, while beyond the river were others, indicating
the presence of herds. Summer weather had already set in, and during
the middle of the day the glare of heat-waves and mirages obstructed
our view of other wayfarers like ourselves, but morning and evening we
were never out of sight of their signals. The banks of the river at the
ford were trampled to the level of the water, while at both approach
and exit the ground was cut into dust. On our arrival, the stage of
water was favorable, and we crossed without a halt of herd, horses, or
commissary. But there was little inducement to follow the old trail.
Washed into ruts by the seasons, the grass on either side eaten away
for miles, there was a look of desolation like that to be seen in the
wake of an army. As we felt under obligations to touch at Abilene
within a few days, there was a constant skirmish for grass within a
reasonable distance of the trail; and we were early, fully two thirds
of the drive being in our rear. One sultry morning south of Buffalo
Gap, as we were grazing past the foot of Table Mountain, several of us
rode to the summit of that butte. From a single point of observation we
counted twelve herds within a space of thirty miles both south and
north, all moving in the latter direction.
When about midway between the Gap and the railroad we were met at noon
one day by Don Lovell. This was his first glimpse of my herd, and his
experienced eye took in everything from a broken harness to the peeling
and legibility of the road brand. With me the condition of the cattle
was the first requisite, but the minor details as well as the more
important claimed my employer’s attention. When at last, after riding
with the herd for an hour, he spoke a few words of approbation on the
condition, weight, and uniformity of the beeves, I felt a load lifted
from my shoulders. That the old man was in a bad humor on meeting us
was evident; but as he rode along beside the cattle, lazy and large as
oxen, the cockles of his heart warmed and he grew sociable. Near the
middle of the afternoon, as we were in the rear, looking over the drag
steers, he complimented me on having the fewest tender-footed animals
of any herd that had passed Abilene since his arrival. Encouraged, I
ventured the double question as to how this one would average with the
other Buford herds, and did he know their whereabouts. As I recall his
reply, it was that all Nueces Valley cattle were uniform, and if there
was any difference it was due to carelessness in receiving. In regard
to the locality of the other herds, it was easily to be seen that he
was provoked about something.
“Yes, I know where they are,” said he, snappishly, “but that’s all the
good it does me. They crossed the railroad, west, at Sweetwater, about
a week ago. I don’t blame Quince, for he’s just trailing along, half a
day behind Dave’s herd. But Sponsilier, knowing that I wanted to see
him, had the nerve to write me a postal card with just ten words on it,
saying that all was well and to meet him in Dodge. Tom, you don’t know
what a satisfaction it is to me to spend a day or so with each of the
herds. But those rascals didn’t pay any more attention to me than if I
was an old woman. There was some reason for it—sore-footed cattle, or
else they have skinned up their remudas and didn’t want me to see them.
If I drive a hundred herds hereafter, Dave Sponsilier will stay at home
as far as I’m concerned. He may think it’s funny to slip past, but this
court isn’t indulging in any levity just at present. I fail to see the
humor in having two outfits with sixty-seven hundred cattle somewhere
between the Staked Plain and No-Man’s-Land, and unable to communicate
with them. And while my herds are all contracted, mature beeves have
broke from three to five dollars a head in price since these started,
and it won’t do to shout before we’re out of the woods. Those fool boys
don’t know that, and I can’t get near enough to tell them.”
I knew better than to ask further questions or offer any apologies for
others. My employer was naturally irritable, and his abuse or praise of
a foreman was to be expected. Previously and under the smile of
prosperity, I had heard him laud Sponsilier, and under an imaginary
shadow abuse Jim Flood, the most experienced man in his employ. Feeling
it was useless to pour oil on the present troubled waters, I excused
myself, rode back, and ordered the wagon to make camp ahead about four
miles on Elm Creek. We watered late in the afternoon, grazing thence
until time to bed the herd. When the first and second guards were
relieved to go in and catch night-horses and get their supper, my
employer remained behind with the cattle. While feeding during the
evening, we allowed the herd to scatter over a thousand acres. Taking
advantage of the loose order of the beeves, the old man rode back and
forth through them until approaching darkness compelled us to throw
them together on the bedground. Even after the first guard took charge,
the drover loitered behind, reluctant to leave until the last steer had
lain down; and all during the night, sharing my blankets, he awoke on
every change of guards, inquiring of the returning watch how the cattle
were sleeping.
As we should easily pass Abilene before noon, I asked him as a favor
that he take the wagon in and get us sufficient supplies to last until
Red River was reached. But he preferred to remain behind with the herd,
and I went instead. This suited me, as his presence overawed my outfit,
who were delirious to see the town. There was no telling how long he
would have stayed with us, but my brother Bob’s herd was expected at
any time. Remaining with us a second night, something, possibly the
placidness of the cattle, mellowed the old man and he grew amiable with
the outfit, and myself in particular. At breakfast the next morning,
when I asked him if he was in a position to recommend any special
route, he replied:
“No, Tom, that rests with you. One thing’s certain; herds are going to
be dangerously close together on the regular trail which crosses Red
River at Doan’s. The season is early yet, but over fifty herds have
already crossed the Texas Pacific Railway. Allowing one half the herds
to start north of that line, it gives you a fair idea what to expect.
When seven hundred thousand cattle left Texas two years ago, it was
considered the banner year, yet it won’t be a marker to this one. The
way prices are tumbling shows that the Northwest was bluffing when they
offered to mature all the cattle that Texas could breed for the next
fifty years. That’s the kind of talk that suits me, but last year there
were some forty herds unsold, which were compelled to winter in the
North. Not over half the saddle horses that came up the trail last
summer were absorbed by these Northern cowmen. Talk’s cheap, but it
takes money to buy whiskey. Lots of these men are new ones at the
business and may lose fortunes. The banks are getting afraid of cattle
paper, and conditions are tightening. With the increased drive this
year, if the summer passes without a slaughter in prices, the Texas
drovers can thank their lucky stars. I’m not half as bright as I might
be, but this is one year that I’m smooth enough not to have unsold
cattle on the trail.”
The herd had started an hour before, and when the wagon was ready to
move, I rode a short distance with my employer. It was possible that he
had something to say of a confidential nature, for it was seldom that
he acted so discouraged when his every interest seemed protected by
contracts. But at the final parting, when we both had dismounted and
sat on the ground for an hour, he had disclosed nothing. On the
contrary, he even admitted that possibly it was for the best that the
other Buford herds had held a westward course and thus avoided the
crush on the main routes. The only intimation which escaped him was
when we had remounted and each started our way, he called me back and
said, “Tom, no doubt but you’ve noticed that I’m worried. Well, I am.
I’d tell you in a minute, but I may be wrong in the matter. But I’ll
know before you reach Dodge, and then, if it’s necessary, you shall
know all. It’s nothing about the handling of the herds, for my foremen
have always considered my interests first. Keep this to yourself, for
it may prove a nightmare. But if it should prove true, then we must
stand together. Now, that’s all; mum’s the word until we meet. Drop me
a line if you get a chance, and don’t let my troubles worry you.”
While overtaking the herd, I mused over my employer’s last words. But
my brain was too muddy even to attempt to solve the riddle. The most
plausible theory that I could advance was that some friendly cowmen
were playing a joke on him, and that the old man had taken things too
seriously. Within a week the matter was entirely forgotten, crowded out
of mind by the demands of the hour. The next night, on the Clear Fork
of the Brazos, a stranger, attracted by our camp-fire, rode up to the
wagon. Returning from the herd shortly after his arrival, I recognized
in our guest John Blocker, a prominent drover. He informed us that he
and his associates had fifty-two thousand cattle on the trail, and that
he was just returning from overtaking two of their five lead herds.
Knowing that he was a well-posted cowman on routes and sustenance,
having grown up on the trail, I gave him the best our camp afforded,
and in return I received valuable information in regard to the country
between our present location and Doan’s Crossing. He reported the
country for a hundred miles south of Red River as having had a dry,
backward spring, scanty of grass, and with long dry drives; and
further, that in many instances water for the herds would have to be
bought from those in control.
The outlook was not to my liking. The next morning when I inquired of
our guest what he would advise me to do, his answer clearly covered the
ground. “Well, I’m not advising any one,” said he, “but you can draw
your own conclusions. The two herds of mine, which I overtook, have
orders to turn northeast and cross into the Nations at Red River
Station. My other cattle, still below, will all be routed by way of
Fort Griffin. Once across Red River, you will have the Chisholm Trail,
running through civilized tribes, and free from all annoyance of
blanket Indians. South of the river the grass is bound to be better
than on the western route, and if we have to buy water, we’ll have the
advantage of competition.”
With this summary of the situation, a decision was easily reached. The
Chisholm Trail was good enough for me. Following up the north side of
the Clear Fork, we passed about twenty miles to the west of Fort
Griffin. Constantly bearing east by north, a few days later we crossed
the main Brazos at a low stage of water. But from there to Red River
was a trial not to be repeated. Wire fences halted us at every turn.
Owners of pastures refused permission to pass through. Lanes ran in the
wrong direction, and open country for pasturage was scarce. What we
dreaded most, lack of drink for the herd, was the least of our
troubles, necessity requiring its purchase only three or four times.
And like a climax to a week of sore trials, when we were in sight of
Red River a sand and dust storm struck us, blinding both men and herd
for hours. The beeves fared best, for with lowered heads they turned
their backs to the howling gale, while the horsemen caught it on every
side. The cattle drifted at will in an uncontrollable mass. The air was
so filled with sifting sand and eddying dust that it was impossible to
see a mounted man at a distance of fifty yards. The wind blew a
hurricane, making it impossible to dismount in the face of it. Our
horses trembled with fear, unsteady on their feet. The very sky
overhead darkened as if night was falling. Two thirds of the men threw
themselves in the lead of the beeves, firing six-shooters to check
them, which could not even be heard by the ones on the flank and in the
rear. Once the herd drifted against a wire fence, leveled it down and
moved on, sullen but irresistible. Towards evening the storm abated,
and half the outfit was sent out in search of the wagon, which was
finally found about dark some four miles distant.
That night Owen Ubery, as he bathed his bloodshot eyes in a pail of
water, said to the rest of us: “Fellows, if ever I have a boy, and tell
him how his pa suffered this afternoon, and he don’t cry, I’ll cut a
switch and whip him until he does.”