CAMP SUPPLY
In gala spirits we broke camp the next morning. The herd had left the
bed-ground at dawn, and as the outfit rode away to relieve the last
guard, every mother’s son was singing. The cattle were a refreshing
sight as they grazed forward, their ragged front covering half a mile
in width. The rest of the past few days had been a boon to the few
tender-footed ones. The lay-over had rejuvenated both man and beast.
From maps in our possession we knew we were somewhere near the western
border of the Chickasaw Nation, while on our left was the reservation
of three blanket tribes of Indians. But as far as signs of occupancy
were concerned, the country was unmarked by any evidence of
civilization. The Chisholm Cattle Trail, which ran from Red River to
the Kansas line, had almost fallen into disuse, owing to encroachments
of settlements south of the former and westward on the latter. With the
advancement of immigration, Abilene and Ellsworth as trail terminals
yielded to the tide, and the leading cattle trace of the ’70’s was
relegated to local use in ’84.
The first guard was on the qui vive for the outfit whose camp-fire they
had sighted the night before. I was riding with Clay Zilligan on the
left point, when he sighted what we supposed was a small bunch of
cattle lying down several miles distant. When we reached the first rise
of ground, a band of saddle horses came in view, and while we were
trying to locate their camp, Jack Splann from the opposite point
attracted our attention and pointed straight ahead. There a large band
of cattle under herd greeted our view, compelling us to veer to the
right and intersect the trail sooner than we intended. Keeping a clear
half-mile between us, we passed them within an hour and exchanged the
compliments of the trail. They proved to be “Laurel Leaf” and “Running
W” cattle, the very ones for which the International Railway agent at
the meeting in February had so boastfully shown my employer the
application for cars. The foreman was cursing like a stranded pirate
over the predicament in which he found himself. He had left Santo
Gertrudo Ranch over a month before with a herd of three thousand
straight two-year-old steers. But in the shipment of some thirty-three
thousand cattle from the two ranches to Wichita Falls, six trains had
been wrecked, two of which were his own. Instead of being hundreds of
miles ahead in the lead of the year’s drive, as he expected, he now
found himself in charge of a camp of cripples. What few trains
belonging to his herd had escaped the ditch were used in filling up
other unfortunate ones, the injured cattle from the other wrecks
forming his present holdings.
“Our people were anxious to get their cattle on to the market early
this year,” said he, “and put their foot into it up to the knee.
Shipping to Red River was an experiment with them, and I hope they’ve
got their belly full. We’ve got dead and dying cattle in every pasture
from the falls to the river, while these in sight aren’t able to keep
out of the stench of those that croaked between here and the ford. Oh,
this shipping is a fine thing—for the railroads. Here I’ve got to rot
all summer with these cattle, just because two of my trains went into
the ditch while no other foreman had over one wrecked. And mind you,
they paid the freight in advance, and now King and Kennedy have brought
suit for damages amounting to double the shipping expense. They’ll get
it all right—in pork. I’d rather have a claim against a nigger than a
railroad company. Look at your beeves, slick as weasels, and from the
Nueces River. Have to hold them in, I reckon, to keep from making
twenty miles a day. And here I am—Oh, hell, I’d rather be on a
rock-pile with a ball and chain to my foot! Do you see those objects
across yonder about two miles—in that old grass? That’s where we bedded
night before last and forty odd died. We only lost twenty-two last
night. Oh, we’re getting in shape fast. If you think you can hold your
breakfast down, just take a ride through mine. No, excuse me—I’ve seen
them too often already.”
Several of the boys and myself rode into the herd some little distance,
but the sight was enough to turn a copper-lined stomach. Scarcely an
animal had escaped without more or less injury. Fully one half were
minus one or both horns, leaving instead bloody stumps. Broken bones
and open sores greeted us on every hand; myriads of flies added to the
misery of the cattle, while in many instances there was evidence of
maggots at work on the living animal. Turning from the herd in disgust,
we went back to our own, thankful that the rate offered us had been
prohibitory. The trials and vexations of the road were mere nothings to
be endured, compared to the sights we were then leaving. Even what we
first supposed were cattle lying down, were only bed-grounds, the
occupants having been humanely relieved by unwaking sleep. Powerless to
render any assistance, we trailed away, glad to blot from our sight and
memory such scenes of misery and death.
Until reaching the Washita River, we passed through a delightful
country. There were numerous local trails coming into the main one, all
of which showed recent use. Abandoned camp-fires and bed-grounds were
to be seen on every hand, silent witnesses of an exodus which was to
mark the maximum year in the history of the cattle movement from Texas.
Several times we saw some evidence of settlement by the natives, but as
to the freedom of the country, we were monarchs of all we surveyed. On
arriving at the Washita, we encountered a number of herds, laboring
under the impression that they were water-bound. Immediate entrance at
the ford was held by a large herd of young cattle in charge of a negro
outfit. Their stock were scattered over several thousand acres, and
when I asked for the boss, a middle-aged darky of herculean figure was
pointed out as in charge. To my inquiry why he was holding the ford,
his answer was that until to-day the river had been swimming, and now
he was waiting for the banks to dry. Ridiculing his flimsy excuse, I
kindly yet firmly asked him either to cross or vacate the ford by three
o’clock that afternoon. Receiving no definite reply, I returned to our
herd, which was some five miles in the rear. Beyond the river’s steep,
slippery banks and cold water, there was nothing to check a herd.
After the noonday halt, the wrangler and myself took our remuda and
went on ahead to the river. Crossing and recrossing our saddle stock a
number of times, we trampled the banks down to a firm footing. While we
were doing this work, the negro foreman and a number of his men rode up
and sullenly watched us. Leaving our horses on the north bank, Levering
and I returned, and ignoring the presence of the darky spectators,
started back to meet the herd, which was just then looming up in sight.
But before we had ridden any distance, the dusky foreman overtook us
and politely said, “Look-ee here, Cap’n; ain’t you-all afraid of losin’
some of your cattle among ours?” Never halting, I replied, “Not a
particle; if we lose any, you eat them, and we’ll do the same if our
herd absorbs any of yours. But it strikes me that you had better have
those lazy niggers throw your cattle to one side,” I called back, as he
halted his horse. We did not look backward until we reached the herd;
then as we turned, one on each side to support the points, it was
evident that a clear field would await us on reaching the river. Every
horseman in the black outfit was pushing cattle with might and main, to
give us a clean cloth at the crossing.
The herd forded the Washita without incident. I remained on the south
bank while the cattle were crossing, and when they were about half over
some half-dozen of the darkies rode up and stopped apart, conversing
among themselves. When the drag cattle passed safely out on the farther
bank, I turned to the dusky group, only to find their foreman absent.
Making a few inquiries as to the ownership of their herd, its
destination, and other matters of interest, I asked the group to
express my thanks to their foreman for moving his cattle aside. Our
commissary crossed shortly afterward, and the Washita was in our rear.
But that night, as some of my outfit returned from the river, where
they had been fishing, they reported the negro outfit as having crossed
and encamped several miles in our rear.
“All they needed was a good example,” said Dorg Seay. “Under a white
foreman, I’ll bet that’s a good lot of darkies. They were just about
the right shade—old shiny black. As good cowhands as ever I saw were
nigs, but they need a white man to blow and brag on them. But it always
ruins one to give him any authority.”
Without effort we traveled fifteen miles a day. In the absence of any
wet weather to gall their backs, there was not a horse in our remuda
unfit for the saddle. In fact, after reaching the Indian Territory,
they took on flesh and played like lambs. With the exception of long
hours and night-herding, the days passed in seeming indolence as we
swept northward, crossing rivers without a halt which in previous years
had defied the moving herds. On arriving at the Cimarron River, in
reply to a letter written to my employer on leaving Texas behind us, an
answer was found awaiting me at Red Fork. The latter was an Indian
trading-post, located on the mail route to Fort Reno, and only a few
miles north of the Chisholm Crossing. The letter was characteristic of
my employer. It contained but one imperative order,—that I should
touch, either with or without the herd, at Camp Supply. For some
unexplained reason he would make that post his headquarters until after
the Buford herds had passed that point. The letter concluded with the
injunction, in case we met any one, to conceal the ownership of the
herd and its destination.
The mystery was thickening. But having previously declined to borrow
trouble, I brushed this aside as unimportant, though I gave my outfit
instructions to report the herd to every one as belonging to Omaha men,
and on its way to Nebraska to be corn-fed. Fortunately I had ridden
ahead of the herd after crossing the Cimarron, and had posted the
outfit before they reached the trading-station. I did not allow one of
my boys near the store, and the herd passed by as in contempt of such a
wayside place. As the Dodge cut-off left the Chisholm Trail some ten
miles above the Indian trading-post, the next morning we waved good-bye
to the old cattle trace and turned on a northwest angle. Our route now
lay up the Cimarron, which we crossed and recrossed at our pleasure,
for the sake of grazing or to avoid several large alkali flats. There
was evidence of herds in our advance, and had we not hurried past Red
Fork, I might have learned something to our advantage. But disdaining
all inquiry of the cut-off, fearful lest our identity be discovered, we
deliberately walked into the first real danger of the trip.
At low water the Cimarron was a brackish stream. But numerous
tributaries put in from either side, and by keeping above the river’s
ebb, an abundance of fresh water was daily secured from the river’s
affluents. The fifth day out from Red Rock was an excessively sultry
one, and suffering would have resulted to the herd had we not been
following a divide where we caught an occasional breeze. The river lay
some ten miles to our right, while before us a tributary could be
distinctly outlined by the cottonwoods which grew along it. Since early
morning we had been paralleling the creek, having nooned within sight
of its confluence with the mother stream, and consequently I had
considered it unnecessary to ride ahead and look up the water. When
possible, we always preferred watering the herd between three and four
o’clock in the afternoon. But by holding our course, we were certain to
intersect the creek at about the usual hour for the cattle’s daily
drink, and besides, as the creek neared the river, it ran through an
alkali flat for some distance. But before the time arrived to intersect
the creek on our course, the herd turned out of the trail, determined
to go to the creek and quench their thirst. The entire outfit, however,
massed on the right flank, and against their will we held them on their
course. As their thirst increased with travel, they made repeated
attempts to break through our cordon, requiring every man to keep on
the alert. But we held them true to the divide, and as we came to the
brow of a small hill within a quarter-mile of the water, a stench
struck us until we turned in our saddles, gasping for breath. I was
riding third man in the swing from the point, and noticing something
wrong in front, galloped to the brow of the hill. The smell was
sickening and almost unendurable, and there before us in plain view lay
hundreds of dead cattle, bloated and decaying in the summer sun.
I was dazed by the awful scene. A pretty, greenswarded little valley
lay before me, groups of cottonwoods fringed the stream here and there,
around the roots of which were both shade and water. The reeking stench
that filled the air stupefied me for the instant, and I turned my horse
from the view, gasping for a mouthful of God’s pure ozone. But our
beeves had been scenting the creek for hours, and now a few of the
leaders started forward in a trot for it. Like a flash it came to me
that death lurked in that water, and summoning every man within
hearing, I dashed to the lead of our cattle to turn them back over the
hill. Jack Splann was on the point, and we turned the leaders when
within two hundred yards of the creek, frequently jumping our horses
over the putrid carcasses of dead cattle. The main body of the herd
were trailing for three quarters of a mile in our rear, and none of the
men dared leave their places. Untying our slickers, Splann and I fell
upon the leaders and beat them back to the brow of the hill, when an
unfortunate breeze was wafted through that polluted atmosphere from the
creek to the cattle’s nostrils. Turning upon us and now augmented to
several hundred head, they sullenly started forward. But in the few
minutes’ interim, two other lads had come to our support, and
dismounting we rushed them, whipping our slickers into ribbons over
their heads. The mastery of man again triumphed over brutes in their
thirst, for we drove them in a rout back over the divide.
Our success, however, was only temporary. Recovering our horses we beat
the cattle back, seemingly inch by inch, until the rear came up, when
we rounded them into a compact body. They quieted down for a short
while, affording us a breathing spell, for the suddenness of this
danger had not only unnerved me but every one of the outfit who had
caught a glimpse of that field of death. The wagon came up, and those
who needed them secured a change of horses. Leaving the outfit holding
the herd, Splann and I took fresh mounts, and circling around, came in
on the windward side of the creek. As we crossed it half a mile above
the scene of disaster, each of us dipped a hand in the water and tasted
it. The alkali was strong as concentrated lye, blistering our mouths in
the experiment. The creek was not even running, but stood in long, deep
pools, clear as crystal and as inviting to the thirsty as a mountain
spring. As we neared the dead cattle, Splann called my attention to the
attitude of the animals when death relieved them, the heads of fully
two thirds being thrown back on their sides. Many, when stricken, were
unable to reach the bank, and died in the bed of the stream. Making a
complete circle of the ghastly scene, we returned to our own, agreeing
that between five and six hundred cattle had met their fate in those
death-dealing pools.
We were not yet out of the woods. On our return, many of the cattle
were lying down, while in the west thunder-clouds were appearing. The
North Fork of the Canadian lay on our left, which was now our only hope
for water, yet beyond our reach for the day. Keeping the slight divide
between us and the creek, we started the herd forward. Since it was
impossible to graze them in their thirsty condition, I was determined
to move them as far as possible before darkness overtook us. But within
an hour we crossed a country trail over which herds had passed on their
way northwest, having left the Chisholm after crossing the North Fork.
At the first elevation which would give me a view of the creek, another
scene of death and desolation greeted my vision, only a few miles above
the first one. Yet from this same hill I could easily trace the
meanderings of the creek for miles as it made a half circle in our
front, both inviting and defying us. Turning the herd due south, we
traveled until darkness fell, going into camp on a high, flat mesa of
several thousand acres. But those evening breezes wafted an invitation
to come and drink, and our thirsty herd refused to bed down. To add to
our predicament, a storm thickened in the west. Realizing that we were
confronting the most dangerous night in all my cattle experience, I
ordered every man into the saddle. The remuda and team were taken in
charge by the wrangler and cook, and going from man to man, I warned
them what the consequences would be if we lost the herd during the
night, and the cattle reached the creek.
The cattle surged and drifted almost at will, for we were compelled to
hold them loose to avoid milling. Before ten o’clock the lightning was
flickering overhead and around us, revealing acres of big beeves, which
in an instant might take fright, and then, God help us. But in that
night of trial a mercy was extended to the dumb brutes in charge. A
warm rain began falling, first in a drizzle, increasing after the first
hour, and by midnight we could hear the water slushing under our
horses’ feet. By the almost constant flashes of lightning we could see
the cattle standing as if asleep, in grateful enjoyment of the sheeting
downpour. As the night wore on, our fears of a stampede abated, for the
buffalo wallows on the mesa filled, and water was on every hand. The
rain ceased before dawn, but owing to the saturated condition
underfoot, not a hoof lay down during the night, and when the gray of
morning streaked the east, what a sense of relief it brought us. The
danger had passed.
Near noon that day, and within a few miles of the North Fork, we
rounded an alkaline plain in which this deadly creek had its source.
Under the influence of the season, alkali had oozed up out of the soil
until it looked like an immense lake under snow. The presence of range
cattle in close proximity to this creek, for we were in the Cherokee
Strip, baffled my reasoning; but the next day we met a range-rider who
explained that the present condition of the stream was unheard of
before, and that native cattle had instinct enough to avoid it. He
accounted for its condition as due to the dry season, there being no
general rains sufficient to flood the alkaline plain and thoroughly
flush the creek. In reply to an inquiry as to the ownership of the
unfortunate herds, he informed me that there were three, one belonging
to Bob Houston, another to Major Corouthers, and the third to a man
named Murphy, the total loss amounting to about two thousand cattle.
From this same range-man we also learned our location. Camp Supply lay
up the North Fork some sixty miles, while a plain trail followed up the
first bottom of the river. Wishing to avoid, if possible, intersecting
the western trail south of Dodge, the next morning I left the herd to
follow up, and rode into Camp Supply before noon. Lovell had sighted me
a mile distant, and after a drink at the sutler’s bar, we strolled
aside for a few minutes’ chat. Once I had informed him of the locality
of the herd and their condition, he cautioned me not to let my business
be known while in the post. After refreshing the inner man, my employer
secured a horse and started with me on my return. As soon as the flag
over Supply faded out of sight in our rear, we turned to the friendly
shade of the timber on the North Fork and dismounted. I felt that the
precaution exercised by the drover was premonitory of some revelation,
and before we arose from the cottonwood log on which we took seats, the
scales had fallen from my eyes and the atmosphere of mystery cleared.
“Tom,” said my employer, “I am up against a bad proposition. I am
driving these Buford cattle, you understand, on a sub-contract. I was
the second lowest bidder with the government, and no sooner was the
award made to The Western Supply Company than they sent an agent who
gave me no peace until they sublet their contract. Unfortunately for
me, when the papers were drawn, my regular attorney was out of town,
and I was compelled to depend on a stranger. After the articles were
executed, I submitted the matter to my old lawyer; he shook his head,
arguing that a loophole had been left open, and that I should have
secured an assignment of the original contract. After studying the
matter over, we opened negotiations to secure a complete relinquishment
of the award. But when I offered the company a thousand dollars over
and above what they admitted was their margin, and they refused it, I
opened my eyes to the true situation. If cattle went up, I was
responsible and would have to fill my contract; if they went down, the
company would buy in the cattle and I could go to hell in a hand-basket
for all they cared. Their bond to the government does me no good, and
beyond that they are irresponsible. Beeves have broken from four to
five dollars a head, and unless I can deliver these Buford herds on my
contract, they will lose me fifty thousand dollars.”
“Have you any intimation that they expect to buy in other cattle?” I
inquired.
“Yes. I have had a detective in my employ ever since my suspicions were
aroused. There are two parties in Dodge this very minute with the
original contract, properly assigned, and they are looking for cattle
to fill it. That’s why I’m stopping here and lying low. I couldn’t
explain it to you sooner, but you understand now why I drove those
Buford herds in different road brands. Tom, we’re up against it, and
we’ve got to fight the devil with fire. Henceforth your name will be
Tom McIndoo, your herd will be the property of the Marshall estate, and
their agent, my detective, will be known as Charles Siringo. Any money
or supplies you may need in Dodge, get in the usual form through the
firm of Wright, Beverly & Co.—they understand. Hold your herd out south
on Mulberry, and Siringo will have notice and be looking for you, or
you can find him at the Dodge House. I’ve sent a courier to Fort
Elliott to meet Dave and Quince, and once I see them, I’ll run up to
Ogalalla and wait for you. Now, until further orders, remember you
never knew a man by the name of Don Lovell, and by all means don’t
forget to use what wits Nature gave you.”