FORT BUFORD
We were at our rope’s end. There were a few accounts to settle in
Glendive, after which we would shake its dust from our feet. Very few
of the quarantine guards returned to town, and with the exception of
Sheriff Wherry, none of the leading cowmen, all having ridden direct
for their ranches. Long before the train arrived which would carry us
to Little Missouri, the opposition herds appeared and crossed the
railroad west of town. Their commissaries entered the village for
supplies, while the “major-domo,” surrounded by a body-guard of men,
rode about on his miserable palfrey. The sheriff, fearing a clash
between the victorious and the vanquished, kept an eye on Sponsilier
and me as we walked the streets, freely expressing our contempt of
Field, Radcliff & Co., their henchmen and their methods. Dave and I
were both nerved to desperation; Sheriff Wherry, anxious to prevent a
conflict, counciled with the opposition drovers, resulting in their
outfits leaving town, while the principals took stage across to Buford.
Meanwhile Sponsilier had wired full particulars to our employer at Big
Horn. It was hardly necessary, as the frost no doubt was general all
over Montana, but we were anxious to get into communication with Lovell
immediately on his return to the railroad. We had written him from
Miles of our failure at Powderville, and the expected second stand at
Glendive, and now the elements had notified him that the opposition
herds were within striking distance, and would no doubt appear at
Buford on or before the day of delivery. An irritable man like our
employer would neither eat nor sleep, once the delivery at the Crow
Agency was over, until reaching the railroad, and our message would be
awaiting him on his return to Big Horn. Our train reached Little
Missouri early in the evening, and leaving word with the agent that we
were expecting important messages from the west, we visited the
liveryman and inquired about the welfare of our horses. The proprietor
of the stable informed us that they had fared well, and that he would
have them ready for us on an hour’s notice. It was after dark and we
were at supper when the first message came. An immediate answer was
required, and arising from the table, we left our meal unfinished and
hastened to the depot. From then until midnight, messages flashed back
and forth, Sponsilier dictating while I wrote. As there was no train
before the regular passenger the next day, the last wire requested us
to have the horses ready to meet the Eastbound, saying that Bob Quirk
would accompany Lovell.
That night it frosted again. Sponsilier and I slept until noon the next
day without awakening. Then the horses were brought in from pasture,
and preparation was made to leave that evening. It was in the
neighborhood of ninety miles across to the mouth of the Yellowstone,
and the chances were that we would ride it without unsaddling. The
horses had had a two weeks’ rest, and if our employer insisted on it,
we would breakfast with the herds the next morning. I was anxious to
see the cattle again and rejoin my outfit, but like a watched pot, the
train was an hour late. Sponsilier and I took advantage of the delay
and fortified the inner man against the night and the ride before us.
This proved fortunate, as Lovell and my brother had supper en route in
the dining-car. A running series of questions were asked and answered;
saddles were shaken out of gunny-sacks and cinched on waiting horses as
though we were starting to a prairie fire. Bob Quirk’s cattle had
reached the Crow Agency in splendid condition, the delivery was
effected without a word, and old man Don was in possession of a letter
from Flood, saying everything had passed smoothly at the Rosebud
Agency.
Contrary to the expectation of Sponsilier and myself, our employer was
in a good humor, fairly walking on the clouds over the success of his
two first deliveries of the year. But amid the bustle and rush, in view
of another frosty night, Sponsilier inquired if it would not be a good
idea to fortify against the chill, by taking along a bottle of brandy.
“Yes, two of them if you want to,” said old man Don, in good-humored
approval. “Here, Tom, fork this horse and take the pitch out of him,”
he continued; “I don’t like the look of his eye.” But before I could
reach the horse, one of my own string, Bob Quirk had mounted him, when
in testimony of the nutritive qualities of Dakota’s grasses, he arched
his spine like a true Texan and outlined a worm-fence in bucking a
circle.
The start was made during the gathering dusk. Sponsilier further lifted
the spirits of our employer, as we rode along, by a clear-cut
description of the opposition cattle, declaring that had they ever
equaled ours, the handling they had received since leaving Ogalalla,
compared to his, would class them with short twos in the spring against
long threes in the fall. Within an hour the stars shone out, and after
following the river some ten miles, we bore directly north until Beaver
Creek was reached near midnight. The pace was set at about an
eight-mile, steady clip, with an occasional halt to tighten cinches or
shift saddles. The horses were capable of a faster gait without tiring,
but we were not sure of the route and were saving them for the finish
after daybreak. Early in the night we were conscious that a frost was
falling, and several times Sponsilier inquired if no one cared for a
nip from his bottle. Bob Quirk started the joke on Dave by declining;
old man Don uncorked the flask, and, after smelling of the contents,
handed it back with his thanks. I caught onto their banter, and not
wishing to spoil a good jest, also declined, leaving Sponsilier to
drink alone. During the night, whenever conversation lagged, some one
was certain to make reference to the remarks which are said to have
passed between the governors of the Carolinas, or if that failed to
provoke a rise, ask direct if no one had something to ward off the
chilly air. After being refused several times, Dave had thrown the
bottle away, meeting these jests with the reply that he had a private
flask, but its quality was such that he was afraid of offending our
cultivated tastes by asking us to join him.
Day broke about five in the morning. We had been in the saddle nearly
ten hours, and were confident that sunrise would reveal some landmark
to identify our location. The atmosphere was frosty and clear, and once
the gray of dawn yielded to the rising sun, the outline of the
Yellowstone was easily traced on our left, while the bluffs in our
front shielded a view of the mother Missouri. In attempting to approach
the latter we encountered some rough country and were compelled to turn
towards the former, crossing it, at O’Brien’s roadhouse, some seven
miles above the mouth. The husbanded reserves of our horses were shaken
out, and shortly afterward smoke-clouds from camp-fires, hanging low,
attracted our attention. The herds were soon located as they arose and
grazed away from their bed-grounds. The outfits were encamped on the
eastern side of the Yellowstone; and before leaving the government
road, we sighted in our front a flag ascending to greet the morning,
and the location of Fort Buford was established. Turning towards the
cattle, we rode for the lower wagon and were soon unsaddling at
Forrest’s camp. The latter had arrived two days before and visited the
post; he told us that the opposition were there in force, as well as
our own attorneys. The arrival of the cattle under contract for that
military division was the main topic of discussion, and Forrest had
even met a number of civilian employees of Fort Buford whose duties
were to look after the government beeves. The foreman of these
unenlisted attaches, a Texan named Sanders, had casually ridden past
his camp the day before, looking over the cattle, and had pronounced
them the finest lot of beeves tendered the government since his
connection with that post.
“That’s good news,” said Lovell, as he threw his saddle astride the
front wheel of the wagon; “that’s the way I like to hear my cattle
spoken about. Now, you boys want to make friends with all those
civilians, and my attorneys and Bob and I will hobnob around with the
officers, and try and win the good will of the entire post. You want to
change your camp every few days and give your cattle good grazing and
let them speak for themselves. Better kill a beef among the outfits,
and insist on all callers staying for meals. We’re strangers here, and
we want to make a good impression, and show the public that we were
born white, even if we do handle cattle for a living. Quince, tie up
the horses for us, and after breakfast Bob and I will look over the
herds and then ride into Fort Buford.—Trout for breakfast? You don’t
mean it!”
It was true, however, and our appetites did them justice. Forrest
reported Splann as having arrived a day late, and now encamped the last
herd up the valley. Taking our horses with us, Dave and I set out to
look up our herds and resume our former positions. I rode through
Sponsilier’s cattle while en route to my own, and remembered the first
impression they had made on my mind,—their uniformity in size and
smoothness of build,—and now found them fatted into finished form, the
herd being a credit to any drover. Continuing on my way, I intercepted
my own cattle, lying down over hundreds of acres, and so contented that
I refused to disturb them. Splann reported not over half a dozen
sore-footed ones among them, having grazed the entire distance from
Little Missouri, giving the tender cattle a good chance to recover. I
held a circle of listeners for several hours, in recounting
Sponsilier’s and my own experiences in the quarantine camps, and our
utter final failure, except that the opposition herds had been
detained, which would force them to drive over twenty miles a day in
order to reach Buford on time. On the other hand, an incident of more
than ordinary moment had occurred with the cattle some ten days
previous. The slow movement of the grazing herds allowed a great amount
of freedom to the boys and was taken advantage of at every opportunity.
It seems that on approaching Beaver Creek, Owen Ubery and Runt Pickett
had ridden across to it for the purpose of trout-fishing. They were
gone all day, having struck the creek some ten or twelve miles west of
the cattle, expecting to fish down it and overtake the herds during the
evening. But about noon they discovered where a wagon had been burned,
years before, and near by were five human skeletons, evidently a
family. It was possibly the work of Indians, or a blizzard, and to
prove the discovery, Pickett had brought in one of the skulls and
proposed taking it home with him as a memento of the drive. Parent
objected to having the reminder in the wagon, and a row resulted
between them, till Splann interfered and threw the gruesome relic away.
The next morning a dozen of us from the three herds rode into the post.
Fort Buford was not only a military headquarters, but a supply depot
for other posts farther west on the Missouri and Yellowstone rivers.
The nearest railroad connection was Glendive, seventy-six miles up the
latter stream, though steamboats took advantage of freshets in the
river to transport immense supplies from lower points on the Missouri
where there were rail connections. From Buford westward, transportation
was effected by boats of lighter draft and the regulation wagon train.
It was recognized as one of the most important supply posts in the
West; as early as five years previous to this date, it had received in
a single summer as many as ten thousand beeves. Its provision for
cavalry was one of its boasted features, immense stacks of forage
flanking those quarters, while the infantry barracks and officers’
quarters were large and comfortable. A stirring little town had sprung
up on the outside, affording the citizens employment in wood and hay
contracts, and becoming the home of a large number of civilian
employees, the post being the mainstay of the village.
After settling our quarantine bills, Sponsilier and I each had money
left. Our employer refused even to look at our expense bills until
after the delivery, but urged us to use freely any remaining funds in
cultivating the good will of the citizens and soldiery alike. Forrest
was accordingly supplied with funds, with the understanding that he was
to hunt up Sanders and his outfit and show them a good time. The beef
foreman was soon located in the quartermaster’s office, and, having
been connected with the post for several years, knew the ropes. He had
come to Buford with Texas cattle, and after their delivery had accepted
a situation under the acting quartermaster, easily rising to the
foremanship through his superior abilities as a cowman. It was like a
meeting of long-lost brothers to mingle again with a cow outfit, and
the sutler’s bar did a flourishing business during our stay in the
post. There were ten men in Sanders’s outfit, several of whom besides
himself were Texans, and before we parted, every rascal had promised to
visit us the next day and look over all the cattle.
The next morning Bob Quirk put in an early appearance at my wagon. He
had passed the other outfits, and notified us all to have the cattle
under convenient herd, properly watered in advance, as the post
commandant, quartermaster, and a party of minor officers were going to
ride out that afternoon and inspect our beeves. Lovell, of course,
would accompany them, and Bob reported him as having made a ten-strike
with the officers’ mess, not being afraid to spend his money.
Fortunately the present quartermaster at Buford was a former
acquaintance of Lovell, the two having had business transactions. The
quartermaster had been connected with frontier posts from Fort Clark,
Texas, to his present position. According to report, the opposition
were active and waging an aggressive campaign, but not being Western
men, were at a disadvantage. Champagne had flowed freely at a dinner
given the night before by our employer, during which Senator Aspgrain,
in responding to a toast, had paid the army a high tribute for the part
it had played in reclaiming the last of our western frontier. The
quartermaster, in replying, had felicitously remarked, as a matter of
his own observation, that the Californian’s love for a horse was only
excelled by the Texan’s love for a cow, to which, amid uproarious
laughter, old man Don arose and bowed his acknowledgment.
My brother changed horses and returned to Sponsilier’s wagon. Dave had
planned to entertain the post beef outfit for dinner, and had insisted
on Bob’s presence. They arrived at my herd near the middle of the
forenoon, and after showing the cattle and remuda, we all returned to
Sponsilier’s camp. These civilian employees furnished their own mounts,
and were anxious to buy a number of our best horses after the delivery
was over. Not even a whisper was breathed about any uncertainty of our
filling the outstanding contract, yet Sanders was given to understand
that Don Lovell would rather, if he took a fancy to him, give a man a
horse than sell him one. Not a word was said about any opposition to
our herds; that would come later, and Sanders and his outfit were too
good judges of Texas cattle to be misled by any bluster or boastful
talk. Sponsilier acted the host, and after dinner unearthed a box of
cigars, and we told stories and talked of our homes in the sunny South
until the arrival of the military party. The herds had been well
watered about noon and drifted out on the first uplands, and we
intercepted the cavalcade before it reached Sponsilier’s herd. They
were mounted on fine cavalry horses, and the only greeting which
passed, aside from a military salute, was when Lovell said: “Dave, show
these officers your beeves. Answer any question they may ask to the
best of your ability. Gentlemen, excuse me while you look over the
cattle.”
There were about a dozen military men in the party, some of them
veterans of the civil war, others having spent their lifetime on our
western frontier, while a few were seeing their first year’s service
after leaving West Point. In looking over the cattle, the post
commander and quartermaster were taken under the wing of Sanders, who,
as only a man could who was born to the occupation, called their
attention to every fine point about the beeves. After spending fully an
hour with Sponsilier’s herd, the cavalcade proceeded on to mine, Lovell
rejoining the party, but never once attempting to draw out an opinion,
and again excusing himself on reaching my cattle. I continued with the
military, answering every one’s questions, from the young lieutenant’s
to the veteran commandant’s, in which I was ably seconded by the
quartermaster’s foreman. My cattle had a splendid fill on them and
eloquently spoke their own praises, yet Sanders lost no opportunity to
enter a clincher in their favor. He pointed out beef after beef, and
vouched for the pounds net they would dress, called attention to their
sameness in build, ages, and general thrift, until one would have
supposed that he was a salesman instead of a civilian employee.
My herd was fully ten miles from the post, and it was necessary for the
military to return that evening. Don Lovell and a number of the boys
had halted at a distance, and once the inspection was over, we turned
and rode back to the waiting group of horsemen. On coming up, a number
of the officers dismounted to shift saddles, preparatory to starting on
their return, when the quartermaster halted near our employer and said:
“Colonel Lovell, let me say to you, in all sincerity, that in my
twenty-five years’ experience on this frontier, I never saw a finer lot
of beeves tendered the government than these of yours. My position
requires that I should have a fair knowledge of beef cattle, and the
perquisites of my office in a post of Buford’s class enable me to
employ the best practical men available to perfect the service. I
remember the quality of cattle which you delivered four years ago to me
at Fort Randall, when it was a six-company post, yet they were not as
fine a lot of beeves as these are. I have always contended that there
was nothing too good in my department for the men who uphold the colors
of our country, especially on the front line. You have been a soldier
yourself and know that I am talking good horsesense, and I want to say
to you that whatever the outcome of this dispute may be, if yours are
the best cattle, you may count on my support until the drums beat
tattoo. The government is liberal and insists on the best; the rank and
file are worthy, and yet we don’t always get what is ordered and well
paid for. Now, remember, comrade, if this difference comes to an issue,
I’m right behind you, and we’ll stand or be turned down together.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” replied Mr. Lovell. “It does seem rather
fortunate, my meeting up with a former business acquaintance, and at a
time when I need him bad. If I am successful in delivering on this
Buford award, it will round out, during my fifteen years as a drover,
over a hundred thousand cattle that I have sold to the government for
its Indian and army departments. There are no secrets in my business;
the reason of my success is simple—my cattle were always there on the
appointed day, humanely handled, and generally just a shade better than
the specifications. My home country has the cattle for sale; I can tell
within two bits a head what it will cost to lay them down here, and
it’s music to my ear to hear you insist on the best. I agree with you
that the firing-line is entitled to special consideration, yet you know
that there are ringsters who fatten at the expense of the rank and
file. At present I haven’t a word to say, but at noon to-morrow I shall
tender the post commander at Ford Buford, through his quartermaster,
ten thousand beeves, as a sub-contractor on the original award to The
Western Supply Company.” The post commander, an elderly, white-haired
officer, rode over and smilingly said: “Now, look here, my Texas
friend, I’m afraid you are borrowing trouble. True enough, there has
been a protest made against our receiving your beeves, and I don’t
mince my words in saying that some hard things have been said about
you. But we happen to know something about your reputation and don’t
give credit for all that is said. Your beeves are an eloquent argument
in your favor, and if I were you I wouldn’t worry. It is always a good
idea in this Western country to make a proviso; and unless the
unforeseen happens, the quartermaster’s cattle foreman will count your
beeves to-morrow afternoon; and for the sake of your company, if we
keep you a day or two longer settling up, I don’t want to hear you
kick. Now, come on and go back with us to the post, as I promised my
wife to bring you over to our house this evening. She seems to think
that a man from Texas with ten thousand cattle ought to have horns, and
I want to show her that she’s mistaken. Come on, now, and not a damned
word of protest out of you.”
The military party started on their return, accompanied by Lovell. The
civilian attaches followed at a respectful distance, a number of us
joining them as far as Sponsilier’s camp. There we halted, when Sanders
insisted on an explanation of the remarks which had passed between our
employer and his. Being once more among his own, he felt no delicacy in
asking for information—which he would never think of doing with his
superiors. My brother gave him a true version of the situation, but it
remained for Dave Sponsilier to add an outline of the opposition herds
and outfits.
“With humane treatment,” said Dave, “the cattle would have qualified
under the specifications. They were bought at Ogalalla, and any of the
boys here will tell you that the first one was a good herd. The market
was all shot to pieces, and they picked them up at their own price. But
the owners didn’t have cow-sense enough to handle the cattle, and put
one of their own gang over the herds as superintendent. They left Cabin
Creek, below Glendive, on the morning of the 10th, and they’ll have to
travel nearly twenty miles a day to reach here by noon to-morrow.
Sanders, you know that gait will soon kill heavy cattle. The outfits
were made up of short-card men and dance-hall ornaments, wild enough to
look at, but shy on cattle sabe. Just so they showed up bad and wore a
six-shooter, that was enough to win a home with Field and Radcliff. If
they reach here on time, I’ll gamble there ain’t ten horses in the
entire outfit that don’t carry a nigger brand. And when it comes to the
big conversation—well, they’ve simply got the earth faded.”
It was nearly sundown when we mounted our horses and separated for the
day. Bob Quirk returned to the post with the civilians, while I
hastened back to my wagon. I had left orders with Splann to water the
herd a second time during the evening and thus insure an easy night in
holding the cattle. On my return, they were just grazing out from the
river, their front a mile wide, making a pretty picture with the
Yellowstone in the background. But as I sat my horse and in retrospect
reviewed my connection with the cattle before me and the prospect of
soon severing it, my remuda came over a near-by hill in a swinging trot
for their second drink. Levering threw them into the river below the
herd, and turning, galloped up to me and breathlessly asked: “Tom, did
you see that dust-cloud up the river? Well, the other cattle are
coming. The timber cuts off your view from here, besides the sun’s gone
down, but I watched their signal for half an hour from that second hill
yonder. Oh, it’s cattle all right; I know the sign, even if they are
ten miles away.”