ALAMO ARRIVES
FOR the last two hundred miles of the long trail up from Texas, life
was less eventful for the Del Sol men. The cattle now were shaken down
to the daily routine of marching and gave little or no trouble. They
took the smaller streams almost in their stride; and as to the last
large waterway, no problem of note existed, for at the Arkansas River,
the trail maker, Jesse Chisholm, again had provided passage in the scow
he had left moored not far from Wichita after it had served his own
purposes. It was merely a procession north of the Arkansas to Abilene,
across beautifully undulating country whose attractiveness would have
been hard to match in all America.
Arrived now at the Solomon River, however, almost at the environs of
Abilene, they found that civilization had prepared a bridge—the first
and only bridge of the entire journey of perhaps a thousand miles. It
was a structure of raw pine, well meant enough, but done by men in
ignorance of the actual nature of Texas steers. It served well enough
for the carts, but the herd would have none of it and insisted on
swimming, as they had crossed so many other streams. It was after they
had crossed that, yielding to the supplications of McCoyne, a halt was
called until the latter could go into town and complete certain
arrangements of his own. He asked Nabours to bring on the herd later.
For some anxious moments the apostle of Abilene stood in the street
looking southward. At last he waved his hat.
“Here they come!” he cried.
Tears ran down his face, perhaps alcoholic tears, but not unworthy, and
pulled up in his straggly beard. He had verified his prediction. Here
came the cows!
A cloud of dust approached, blown by the prairie wind. By and by the men
could see the heads of the herd advancing steadily, a mingling sea of
longhorns in a procession interminably long. The word passed now and
even the saloons were emptied. All Abilene came to see and welcome the
first herd up the trail. It seemed a large event to them. Not a man of
them, not the wildest dreamer of them all, ever guessed that it was the
opening of one of the greatest epochs in American history. Men even
would have scoffed at the assertion that thirty-five thousand cattle
would reach Abilene that year, seventy-five thousand the year following;
that soon the state of Texas would be trailing north over a million head
a year.
Ahead and alongside, mounted on wiry little horses, rode men ragged,
coatless, long of hair, bearded; tall men, sinewy, insouciant. The
saddles of these men had double girths, wide low horns and deep leather
flaps hanging low over the feet of the riders. Each man had a thin hide
reata coiled at his saddle horn. Each man wore a heavy belt at which
hung a heavy revolver, and a few carried rifles under their legs. They
came easily, steadily, ahead, their own eyes full of wonder but not of
fear.
Well to the front and paralleling the column to windward came the great
wheeled carts with white tops, each drawn by two yoke of oxen. On the
front seat of one sat a black woman, with a long musket across her lap.
Upon yet another was an old woman, dark, wrinkled of face, attending
strictly to her own business.
The tilt flaps of the lead cart were closed. The cattle which drew it
followed the horseman who rode just ahead—an old man, of face also dark
and wrinkled, who wore a very tall conical sombrero, the first of the
like ever seen in Abilene, the only one of all his company. His cotton
clothing was meager, he himself was meager, his horse was meager. Upon
his saddle horn there was perched what proved to be a bird whose plumage
bore a luster of its own; a bird somewhat battered and bedraggled, with
certain feathers of wing and tail missing and a crest somewhat torn and
dragging; which none the less raised its head from time to time and
emitted a loud and defiant crow. At times Sanchez ran a thin brown hand
over Gallina, his sole surviving fighting cock.
Back of this cart marched, saddled and bridled, a singular horse,
beautiful of head and crest, its dark yellow body coat broken by white
markings, a broad band of white from side to side across its hips.
In the vanguard of the herd proper marched a great gaunt steer, a giant
in stature, long of limb and wide of horn, a yellow dun in color. It now
was coming on with a rapid sidewise shuffle, not dissimilar to the fox
trot of a Southern riding horse, alertly looking from side to side. Back
of him the wide sea of other longhorns showed, tossing in the dust. It
might all have been some circus caravan, so wholly out of human
experience it all seemed to the observers.
At the points of the herd rode two stalwart men, one at either side, men
who never looked at one another. Back of them at long intervals, every
four or five hundred cattle, came the swing men; and at last the dust of
the drag—the weak, the maimed and the halt. Back of these yet again
showed the darker colors of the remuda—some scores of horses easily
handled by a ragged, thin-shouldered, tallow-faced boy, who wore the
only pair of _chaparajos_ in the company, for sake of trousers no longer
fit to see.
In all their lives these Texas cattle never had seen a town even so
great as embryonic Abilene. It took a quarter of an hour to get them to
enter the cross street. As McCoyne had admitted that the new corrals
would hold only a fraction of the cattle, it was the new intention to
drive through the town and hold the herd a mile or two to the north;
Nabours himself assenting thus much to the idea of a triumphal entry
merely to oblige his guide. He rode back to the lead cart and leaned
over.
“For God’s sake, Miss Taisie, get on Blancocito and ride in front, why
don’t you? Get on your own horse and ride in front of your own cows.”
But Taisie was not for triumphal entry. She stood out for closed
curtains on her cart. Through a narrow crack she gazed out. There were
countless men, but not a single woman.
Once headed for the cross street and crowned up by the riders, the head
of the herd, with much clacking of horns and cracking of hoofs, advanced
until it came opposite the gallery of the Drovers’ Cottage. Now came
climax in welcome. Here the town band of Abilene lay in ambush.
Came a sudden blare of brass—a cataclysmic thing in its results,
generously intended and not lacking precedent in welcomes, but failing
in all understanding of a herd of Texas cattle.
Probably each musician was playing the air which pleased him best. It
made no difference. With one tremendous rush and roar the herd surged,
broke, ran. The wildly rolling tails betokened one of the sharpest
stampedes of the entire trail. Simultaneously the great majority of the
saddle ponies began efforts to disencumber themselves of their riders,
in whom they now apparently had lost all confidence. Had the population
of Abilene sought a circus, they needed now no more than to look about
them.
The band played on, as those having engaged in an undertaking which they
did not like to discontinue. But they played on to an empty house. The
Del Sol herd was gone!
The riders leaned once more into the work, headed by Nabours, profoundly
cursing all brass bands, in a run the worst they had seen, even in their
abundant experience. The men of Abilene had the first and finest
opportunity of their lives to see a herd of wild Texas cattle handled as
no men other than these could have done the work. Even for these it took
time and distance.
The sudden burst of melody had left the cattle without concertedness.
They broke into different bands, even deserting their vanguard. Of the
latter, old Alamo, the giant steer that had paced the herd for a
thousand miles, alone held to the proper course. Alamo laid back his
horns and raised his muzzle like some wild elk. He dashed past the mob,
past the band at the Drovers’ Cottage, past everything of Abilene except
the railroad and the stockyards.
“Pore old Alamo!” said Jim Nabours later. “He shore knowed which way was
north, but he didn’t seem to know nothing else.”
The head of old Alamo with its immense sweep of horns in later years
long was known in the general freight office of a Western railroad,
where, had he then retained his faculties, he might at every hour of the
day and night have noted sight and sound of railway activities. But at
the time then current, Alamo had never seen a bit of railroad iron in
all his life. Perhaps to his startled gaze the two twisting lines of
steel were two giant snakes. In any event, Alamo swerved suddenly,
trying to evade them. His hard hoofs slipped on the metals and he fell.
His right foreleg, doubled under him, snapped below the knee under his
own weight and that of two other steers which had made bold to follow
him. So there he lay, much like other figures in completed destiny.
Engaged in opposite directions, not many of the men of Abilene or of Del
Sol noted what happened. There came out of the dust, spurring forward,
only one slim ragged rider—who even had left his beloved horses—the
boy Cinquo Centavos who, so it seemed, had some sort of admiration and
understanding of the lead steer of Del Sol.
Excited, tears streaming down his dusty face as always in his moments of
tension, Cinquo spurred up to the railroad track and sprang down where
the great steer lay struggling. His was the first rope that ever sang in
Abilene streets. It caught the great steer over the horns and laid him
flat, the pony setting back even as his rider left the saddle.
“Oh, Alamo!” wept Cinquo, seating himself on the steer’s muzzle to quiet
his plunging. “You done busted that laig plumb off!”
“Now, ain’t that too bad!” said one of the more sober musicians, who now
strolled over from the Drovers’ Cottage.
“Here, you!” commanded Cinquo. “You go back to that cart where the
nigger woman is at and get her to give you the hide of that yearlin’ we
killed yesterday.
“Gentlemen,” continued Cinquo, drawing himself up to his full height,
after he had the victim properly strung out, “this may be a cow town,
but you-all don’t know nothing about cows. Now look at that! Just
because it’s Fourth of July, you think you got any right to bust the
best damn steer that ever come out of Texas?”
Alamo and Cinquo were to take the first curtain call. The boy was no
theorist. Under his direction they brought him some pieces of barrel
staves. Around these he wound again and again strips of the green hide,
stretching it tight—perhaps the first surgery on a Texas steer, if not
the last, ever known on the long trail up from the Southern lands.
“Rawhide,” explained Cinquo to the gathering group, “is the holdin’est
thing there is. Once that dries, that steer’s laig will be a lot
better’n new—if it don’t dry too tight. Is them the pens over yon?” he
continued. “Well, swing a pole acrost the sides of the chute. Some of
you-all go and git some grass or hay. We’ll make a belly-band o’ the
rest of the hide and swing him up offen the ground so it won’t hurt his
sore laig.
“This here steer’s name is Alamo,” he explained to his audience. “He’s
the onliest Texas cow or horse I ever knowed to have a name. But he
started through. What us Texans starts we finishes. Git back now and
leave me if he can stand up.”
Old Alamo, relieved of rope and with no weight on his neck, proved his
mettle by springing to his feet as though nothing had happened, and only
the strange feeling in his foreleg prevented his charging the crowd as
an evidence of good faith. But Cinquo impressed Sanchez, who was visible
coming up, and Alamo yielded to the force of numbers and of skill. A man
flung open the gate of the Abilene Stockyards. Alamo entered in.
“He’s one game steer,” said McCoyne, when later he found him there in
place, in solitary grandeur. “If five hundred dollars will buy that
steer he’s mine right now, and I’ll keep him as long as he lives. Hurrah
for old Alamo, the first steer up the trail! Strike up some more music
again, fellows; he can’t get away now. Show my friends from Texas what a
Fourth of July can be in Abilene.”
But a certain thought came to the mind of Mr. McCoyne upon the instant.
“We’ve forgot about that young lady in the cart,” said he. “Anyhow, she
ain’t stampeded. I told you we had a woman along, and now I’ll prove it.
Come on, men, march in front and play your damnedest. I’m going to fetch
her up to the Cottage.”
The landlord and manager of the Drovers’ Cottage was an Eastern man
imported for this special purpose of running a hostelry devoted to trail
men, and now on his trial trip. His name—which so far as he is
concerned is of no consequence—was Gore. His wife’s name, which for
years was of very great consequence in all Kansas, was Lou Gore. A
portly woman she was, with a heart as large as that of any ox that ever
came up the trail. Of Lou Gore’s countless acts of charity, of her
unceasing ministrations to the ill and the afflicted, the wounded and
the impoverished men of the old trail, history has written all too
little. She was known sometimes as the Mother of Abilene, sometimes as
the Mother of Kansas; more often as the Mother of the Cowboys.
As yet Lou Gore had small acquaintance of those mad scenes which so soon
were to become a regular experience with her. But now the carpenters had
her new hotel almost completed, nearly ready for occupancy. Somewhat
flustered that she had not quite finished sweeping out after the
carpenters, not quite put up all her curtains—for curtains she insisted
upon at the cottage—the landlady of that edifice came to the front door
in time to see some of the incidents above recorded. Therefore, duly, as
she hid her hands under her apron, she heard the reassembled musicians
once more essaying sweet sounds, saw the procession of pedestrians
advancing toward her door.
And then Lou Gore saw, after a second and more careful look, what she
had not expected to see—a tall and beautiful young girl, an
astonishingly and strikingly beautiful young girl, who now for the first
time parted the curtains of her conveyance and sprang lightly to the
ground.
Taisie Lockhart, in men’s clothing—a thing then almost equivocal for a
woman—stood looking about her as though about to fly. She seemed so
much alone, so helpless, so appealing, that the only other real woman of
Abilene ran to her and took her into her hospitable arms.
“Why, you poor dear!” said she. “You poor dear! You’re a girl, ain’t
you! Of course, I knew! Now you come right on in!”
So Taisie Lockhart, the first woman ever to cross the doorstep of the
Drovers’ Cottage, with the exception of Lou Gore herself, came right on
in. And as she passed the door and started toward the hall which opened
from the front-office room she saw standing before her the man she had
hoped and feared she would never see again—Dan McMasters.