our horses had the best the ranch afforded. But at a large cattle ranch
there is always something doing and it was not long before we were again
in the saddle and preparing for another trip on the trail. To the cow
boy accustomed to riding long distances, life in the saddle ceases to be
tiresome. It is only the dull monotony of following a large herd of
cattle on the trail day after day that tires the rider and makes him
long for something to turn up in the way of excitement. It does not
matter what it is just so it is excitement of some kind. This the cow
boy finds in dare-devil riding, shooting, roping and such sports when he
is not engaged in fighting Indians or protecting his herds from the
organized bands of white cattle thieves that infested the cattle country
in those days. It was about this time that I hired to Bill Montgomery
for a time to assist in taking a band of nine hundred head of horses to
Dodge City. The journey out was without incident, on arriving at Dodge
City we sold the horses for a good price returning to the old ranch in
Arizona by the way of the old lone and lonesome Dodge City trail. While
en route home on this trail we had a sharp fight with the Indians. When
I saw them coming I shouted to my companions, "We will battle them to
hell!" Soon we heard their yells as they charged us at full speed. We
met them with a hot fire from our Winchesters, but as they were in such
large numbers we saw that we could not stop them that way and it soon
developed into a hand to hand fight. My saddle horse was shot from under
me; at about the same time my partner James Holley was killed, shot
through the heart. I caught Holley's horse and continued the fight until
it became evident that the Indians were too much for us, then it became
a question of running or being scalped. We thought it best to run as we
did not think we could very well spare any hair at that particular time,
any way we mostly preferred to have our hair cut in the regular way by a
competent barber, not that the Indians would charge us too much, they
would have probably done the job for nothing, but we didn't want to
trouble them, and we did not grudge the price of a hair cut any way, so
we put spurs to our horses and they soon carried us out of danger.
Nearly every one of us were wounded in this fight but Holley was the
only man killed on our side though a few of the Indians were made better
as the result of it. We heard afterwards that Holley was scalped and his
body filled with arrows by the red devils. This was only one of the many
similar fights we were constantly having with the Indians and the cattle
thieves of that part of the country. They were so common that it was not
considered worth mentioning except when we lost a man, as on this
occasion. This was the only trouble we had on this trip of any
importance and we soon arrived at the Montgomery ranch in Texas where
after a few days rest with the boys, resting up, I made tracks in the
direction of my own crib in Arizona.
CHAPTER X.
WE MAKE A TRIP TO NEBRASKA. THE HOLE IN THE WALL COUNTRY. A LITTLE
SHOOTING SCRAPE. CATTLE ON THE TRAIL AND THE WAY TO HANDLE THEM. A BIT
OF MORALIZATION.
The ranch boss's voice rang out sharply, but kindly as he entered our
quarters where we were engaged in all sorts of occupations, some of the
boys playing cards, others smoking and swapping stories, while those
more industrious were diligently engaged in cleaning their forty-fives.
I glanced up from my long barreled rifle I was just putting the
finishing touches to, wondering what was up now. The boss informed us
that we were to take another herd of cattle north, away up in the
northwestern part of Nebraska, and that all of us who were on the last
trip had been selected for the duty again this trip. This announcement
was met with exclamations of approval from the boys who had now got
thoroughly rested up and were anxious for regular duty again. Since our
return from Wyoming we had not been doing much, but taking it easy with
occasional range riding and were becoming rusty in consequence. We were
to start on our second journey north this season as soon as possible, so
we lost no time in getting ready. We were to take the same size herd as
before. It did not take us long to round the herd up and the second day
from the time we received the order we were off. Our route was different
this time, starting from the home ranch in Arizona we went by way of New
Mexico, Colorado and into Nebraska, by way of the Platte river, which we
crossed near where the forks of the North and South Platte unite. It was
now late in the season and we had to hurry in order to get through in
good weather, therefore we put the cattle to the limit of their
traveling powers. Beef cattle, that is, four year old long horns differ
greatly from other cattle in their travel. The first day after being put
out on the trail they will travel twenty-five miles without any trouble
then as the pace begins to tell on them they fall back to fifteen or
twenty miles a day, and there also seems to be an understanding among
the cattle themselves that each must take a turn at leading the herd,
those that start in the lead in the morning will be away back in the
center of the herd at noon, and those that started in the center are now
leading. This they keep up until all have had their turn at leading and
as a rule if they are not scared by something they will stay pretty well
bunched. We allowed the herd to graze and rest during the night, only
traveling during the day, as a herd of cattle should never be moved off
their grazing ground until the dew is off the grass because their feet
are made soft by the wet grass and if they are moved onto the hard trail
while in that condition sore heels are sure to result, and a steer with
sore heels cannot travel and will have to be left behind on the trail or
the herd held until those affected have recovered. Our saddle horses
travel several times the distance that a herd of cattle does on the
trail, as it is necessary to ride from one end of the herd to the other
to keep them in line and headed in the right direction. This work is
hard on the horses but that is always provided for by having a small
herd of horses along under the charge of a horse rustler as we called
him and any of the boys could change his tired horse for a fresh one at
any time he chose, but he would have no one to help him make the change.
He would have to rope, throw, saddle and bridle the horse himself
without any assistance whatever from his companions, and this was no
easy matter as most of the horses were wild Texas mustangs and had never
had the saddle on more than once or twice and so as often happened the
cow boy would be led a hard life before he finally made the change of
mounts. On such occasions he always received the unwelcome and unasked
advice of the other boys, but as most of the boys were expert at that
business there was slight chance for railing and chaff. But if for any
reason he should get the laugh from his companions he always took it in
the same spirit in which it was given, only waiting his chance to get
even, and such a chance was not long in coming. This particular herd
acted very well and gave us no trouble to speak of. Our route lay over
the old Hays' and Elsworth trail, one of the best known cattle trails in
the west, then by way of Olga, Nebraska, at that time a very small and
also a very tough place. It was a rendezvous of the tough element and
the bad men of the cow country. There were a large number of cow boys
there from the surrounding ranges and the place looked very enticing to
our tired and thirsty crowd, but we had our herd to look after and
deliver so we could not stop, but pushed on north crossing the Platte
river, then up the trail that led by the hole in the wall country, near
which place we went into camp. Then as now this hole in the wall country
was the refuge of the train robbers, cattle thieves and bandits of the
western country, and when we arrived the place was unusually full of
them, and it was not long before trouble was brewing between our men and
the natives which culminated in one of our men shooting and killing one
of the bad men of the hole. Fearing more trouble and not being in the
best possible shape to meet it, burdened as we were with five hundred
head of cattle we broke camp at once and proceeded on our journey north.
We arrived at the ranch where our herd were to be delivered without
further incident and with all our cattle intact and after turning the
herd over to their new owners and spending several days in getting
acquainted with our northern neighbors, the Nebraska cowboys whom we
found hot numbers and a jolly all round crowd of cattle men, we left for
Arizona on the return journey by way of Wyoming, Colorado and New
Mexico, arriving home in good shape late in the fall without further
incident, and were soon engaged in range riding over our own ranges
again, and getting everything in shape for the winter, but we had to be
out on the range off and on all winter. Then in the spring came the
usual round ups, cuttings and brandings, during which time all our men
were needed at the home ranch. I had long since developed into a first
class cow boy and besides being chief brand reader in Arizona and the
pan handle country. My expertness in riding, roping and in the general
routine of the cow boy's life, including my wide knowledge of the
surrounding country, gained in many long trips with herds of cattle and
horses, made my services in great demand and my wages increased
accordingly. To see me now you would not recognize the bronze hardened
dare devil cow boy, the slave boy who a few years ago hunted rabbits in
his shirt tail on the old plantation in Tennessee, or the tenderfoot who
shrank shaking all over at the sight of a band of painted Indians. I had
long since felt the hot sting of the leaden bullet as it plowed its way
through some portion of my anatomy. Likewise I had lost all sense of
fear, and while I was not the wild blood thirsty savage and all around
bad man many writers have pictured me in their romances, yet I was wild,
reckless and free, afraid of nothing, that is nothing that I ever saw,
with a wide knowledge of the cattle country and the cattle business and
of my guns with which I was getting better acquainted with every day,
and not above taking my whiskey straight or returning bullet for bullet
in a scrimmage. I always had been reckless, as evidenced by my riding of
Black Highwayman on the old home plantation and I never lost courage or
my nerve under the most trying circumstances, always cool, observant and
ready for what might turn up, made me liked and respected by my
employers and those of the cattle kings of the western country it was my
good fortune to meet and know. On our own ranch, among my own companions
my position was as high as a king, enjoying the trust and confidence of
my employers and the homage of the men many of whom were indebted to me
on occasions when my long rope or ever ready forty-five colt pistol had
saved them from serious injury or death. But I thought nothing of those
things then, my only ambition was to learn the business and excel in all
things connected with the cow boy's life that I was leading and for
which I had genuine liking. Mounted on my favorite horse, my long
horsehide lariat near my hand, and my trusty guns in my belt and the
broad plains stretching away for miles and miles, every foot of which I
was familiar with, I felt I could defy the world. What man with the fire
of life and youth and health in his veins could not rejoice in such a
life? The fall and winter of 1874 passed on the Arizona ranch without
any unusual occurrence, the cattle wintered well and prospects were
bright for the coming year. In the early spring we again began
preparing for the big round up, the brandings and the cuttings. There
had been hundreds of calves and colts added to the vast herds, these all
had to be cut out and branded, while all the cattle that had strayed
during the winter had to be rounded up and accounted for. This work kept
us in the saddle the greater part of the time. Sometimes we would be
absent for days and weeks at a time on the trail of a bunch of strayed
cattle. On these trips we often encountered big herds of buffalo and
these supplied us with meat, and such meat! A buffalo steak fresh from a
still quivering buffalo broiled over coals is a dish fit for the Gods.
Coming back from one of these trips after strays early in 1875 we were
notified to get ready to take a herd of five hundred head of horses up
in South Dakota, the trip was a long one but horses can travel much
faster than cattle and on the whole are much easier to handle. On the
trails we were all happy at the prospect of the trip and were not long
in getting ready and getting the horses started out on the trail, we
took them by way of New Mexico, Colorado and Nebraska. They gave us very
little trouble on the way up, and we reached our destination and
delivered them without incident worthy of note, returning by way of
Wyoming, Colorado and New Mexico. On starting out on the return journey
we came down Pold creek and stopped at the old log saloon to get a
drink, that being the first place where we could get any whiskey. Here
in moving around among the large number of cow boys and tough
characters, generally, another fuss was started between our men and some
cattle rustlers resulting in some shooting, but fortunately without
serious consequences. As we were not looking for trouble, and not
wishing to kill any one we left at once for home. It was our policy to
always avoid trouble if possible while on these trips, but to always
defend ourselves and our rights against all comers, be they white men or
Indians and then it would look bad for us to have to report the loss of
a man or so in a saloon fight when we were sent out to attend to
business, for that reason we did not stop to give an exhibition of our
fighting qualities, although we were very anxious to have matters out
with them. We arrived home safely with all well and in time to assist in
the round ups and the other ranch work in which we were needed.
[Illustration: A Little Scrap--Hole-in-the-Wall Country]
CHAPTER XI.
A BUFFALO HUNT. I LOSE MY LARIAT AND SADDLE. I ORDER A DRINK FOR MYSELF
AND MY HORSE. A CLOSE PLACE IN OLD MEXICO.
When there was not much doing around the ranch, we boys would get up a
buffalo hunt. Buffaloes were plentiful in those days and one did not
have to ride far before striking a herd. Going out on the open plain we
were not long in sighting a herd, peacefully grazing on the luxuriant
grass, and it would have been an easy task to shoot them but that was
not our idea of sport. In the first place it was too easy. Then to shoot
them would rob the hunt of all element of danger and excitement, for
that reason we prepared to rope them and then dispatch them with the
knife or revolver. As soon as the herd caught sight of us they promptly
proceeded to stampede and were off like the wind. We all had pretty good
mounts and we started in pursuit. It is a grand sight to see a large
herd of several thousand buffalo on a stampede, all running with their
heads down and their tongues hanging out like a yard of red flannel,
snorting and bellowing they crowd along, shaking the ground for yards
around. We soon reached the rear of the herd and began operations. I had
roped and dispatched several, when my attention was attracted by a
magnificent bull buffalo, which I made up my mind to get, running free
behind the herd. My buffalo soon came within range and my rope settled
squarely over his horns and my horse braced himself for the strain but
the bull proved too much for us. My horse was knocked down, the saddle
snatched from under me and off my horse's back and my neck nearly broken
as I struck the hardest spot in that part of Texas After I got through
counting the stars not to mention the moons that I could see quite
plainly, I jumped to my feet and after assuring myself that I was all
there I looked for my horse, he was close by just getting up while in
the distance and fast growing more distant each moment was my favorite
saddle flying in the breeze, hanging to the head of the infuriated
buffalo.
Now I did not think I could very well lose that saddle so I sprang on my
horse's bare back and started in pursuit. My horse could run like a deer
and his hard fall did not seem to affect him much, so it did not take us
long to overtake the plunging herd. Running my horse close up by the
side of the thief who stole my saddle, I placed the muzzle of my
forty-five close against his side and right there I took charge of Mr.
Buffalo and my outfit.
It was no trouble to get all the buffalo meat we wanted in those days,
all that was necessary was to ride out on the prairie and knock them
over with a bullet, a feat that any cow boy can accomplish without
useless waste of ammunition, and a running buffalo furnishes perhaps the
best kind of a moving target for practice shooting. And the man that can
drop his buffalo at two hundred yards the first shot can hit pretty much
anything he shoots at.
I never missed anything I shot at within this distance and many a time
when I thought the distance of an object was too great, the boys have
encouraged me by saying, shoot, you never miss, and as much to my
surprise as theirs, my old stand by placed the bullet where I aimed.
I early in my career recognized the fact that a cow boy must know how to
use his guns, and therefore I never lost an opportunity to improve my
shooting abilities, until I was able to hit anything within range of my
forty-five or my winchester. This ability has times without number
proved of incalculable value to me, when in tight places. It has often
saved the life of myself and companions and so by constant practice I
soon became known as the best shot in the Arizona and pan handle
country.
After the buffalo hunt we were sent down in Old Mexico to get a herd of
horses, that our boss had bought from the Mexicans in the southwestern
part of Old Mexico. We made the journey out all right without special
incident, but after we had got the horses out on the trail, headed north
I was possessed with a desire to show off and I thought surprise the
staid old greasers on whom we of the northern cattle country looked with
contempt. So accordingly I left the boys to continue with the herd,
while I made for the nearest saloon, which happened to be located in one
of the low mud houses of that country, with a wide door and clay floor.
As the door was standing open, and looked so inviting I did not want to
go to the trouble of dismounting so urging my horse forward, I rode in
the saloon, first however, scattering with a few random shots the
respectable sized crowd of dirty Mexicans hanging around as I was in no
humor to pay for the drinks for such a motley gathering. Riding up to
the bar, I ordered keller for myself and a generous measure of pulky for
my horse, both popular Mexican drinks.
[Illustration: I Lose My Lariat and Saddle--I Hit the Hardest Spot in
that Part of Texas]
The fat wobbling greaser who was behind the bar looked scared, but he
proceeded to serve us with as much grace as he could command. My
forty-five colt which I proceeded to reload, acting as a persuader.
Hearing a commotion outside I realized that I was surrounded. The crowd
of Mexican bums had not appreciated my kindly greeting as I rode up and
it seems did not take kindly to being scattered by bullets. And not
realizing that I could have killed them all, just as easy as I scattered
them, and seeing there was but two of us--I and my horse--they had
summoned sufficient courage to come back and seek revenge. There was a
good sized crowd of them, every one with some kind of shooting iron, and
I saw at once that they meant business. I hated to have to hurt some of
them but I could see I would have to or be taken myself, and perhaps
strung up to ornament a telegraph pole. This pleasant experience I had
no especial wish to try, so putting spurs to my horse I dashed out of
the saloon, then knocking a man over with every bullet from my Colts I
cut for the open country, followed by several volleys from the angry
Mexicans' pop guns.
[Illustration: I Take Charge of My Buffalo and Outfit]
The only harm their bullets did, however, was to wound my horse in the
hip, not seriously, however, and he carried me quickly out of range. I
expected to be pursued, however, as I had no doubt I had done for some
of those whom I knocked over, so made straight for the Rio Grande
river riding day and night until I sighted that welcome stream and on
the other side I knew I was safe. Crossing the Rio Grande and entering
Texas at the Eagle pass, I rode straight to the old home ranch where I
stayed resting up until the boys got the horses out of Mexico into
Texas, then I joined them and assisted in driving the horses into the
ranch. I congratulated myself that I escaped so easily and with such
little damage. It was certainly a close place but I have been in even
closer places numbers of times and always managed to escape. Either
through trick, the fleetness of my horse or my shooting and sometimes
through all combined. At this time I was known all over the cattle
country as "Red River Dick," the name given to me by the boss of the
Duval outfit, when I first joined the cow boys at Dodge City, Kansas.
And many of the cattle kings of the west as well as the Indians and
scores of bad men all over the western country have at some time or
other had good reason to remember the name of "Red River Dick."
This was in 1875. It was not till the next year that I won the name of
"Deadwood Dick," a name I made even better known than "Red River Dick."
And a name I was proud to carry and defend, if necessary, with my life.
This season we made several trips North. The horses we brought up from
Texas now had to be driven to old man Keith's in Nebraska, on the North
Platte river. On this trip we had no trouble to speak of. Several bands
of Indians showed up at different times but a shot or so from one of the
boys would send them scurrying off at full speed, without stopping to
sample further our fighting abilities.
This was in some ways disappointing to us as we were spoiling for a
fight or excitement of some kind. However, nothing turned up, so after
delivering the horses to their new owners, we made tracks for home
again. It was the same round of duties, season after season, but all our
trips on the trail were not by any means alike, we were continually
visiting new country and new scenes, traveling over trails new to us,
but old in history. Many of these old trails are now famous in history.
[Illustration: I Order a Drink for Myself and Horse]
Each trip gave us new experiences, and traveling so much as we were,
there were few outfits in the cattle country that knew the trails and
the country as we did. And we were continually adding to this knowledge
and experience. After returning from old man Keith's in Nebraska we had
to take the trail again with a herd of cattle for the Spencer brothers,
whose ranch was located just north of the Red Light about sixty-five
miles north of the bad lands in South Dakota. This was one of the
largest cattle ranches in the West.
Their brand was known as the R Box Circle Brand. There we remained for
some time, adding to our knowledge of the cattle business such things as
can only be learned at a large cattle ranch. On our way home we passed
through Laramie, Wyoming. As fate would have it, we arrived at Laramie
City on July 4, 1875, just as the notorious Jack Watkins escaped from
the Albany county jail, and the excitement in the town was at fever
heat. Jack Watkins, who was probably the most desperate criminal that
was ever placed behind prison bars, had been arrested and placed in
close confinement, as the officers of the western states had long tried
to effect his capture. And they did not want to take any chances of
losing him, now they had him, but for all their caution he had escaped,
shooting Deputy Sheriff Lawrence in the leg, crippling him for life.
Ex-Conductor Brophy was at that time sheriff. The officers noting our
arrival at such time, at once ordered us out of the city, as they
suspected we knew something about the outbreak. We protested our
innocence of any knowledge of the trouble. But appearances were against
us, so we had to leave, going direct to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Here we
disposed of a small band of horses our boss had along, and which we did
not wish to take back home with us. They were sold to the Swarn Brothers
at a good price.
We remained in Cheyenne until the 18th of July, when we left for Texas,
arriving at the old Pali Dora range ranch on the 10th of August. We had
no more than got rested up before we were again called out on active
duty. The many large cattle owners of the panhandle country had got
together and come to the conclusion that the wild mustang horses,
large bands of which were running wild over the Arizona and Texas
plains, would make good cattle horses, and to that end a plan of
campaign was arranged, whereby they could be captured, and broken in and
put to some use, instead of causing damage to the range, as at present.
[Illustration: A Close Place in Old Mexico--Knocking a Man Over With
Every Bullet from My Colt's I Cut for the Open Country]
CHAPTER XII.
THE BIG WILD MUSTANG HUNT. WE TIRE THEM OUT. THE INDIANS CAPTURE OUR
MESS WAGON AND COOK. OUR BILL OF FARE BUFFALO MEAT WITHOUT SALT.
It was a bright clear morning in September as we were all gathered at
the old home ranch, prepared to start on the great mustang hunt. There
was one of the best men from each of the big cattle ranges in the
panhandle and Arizona country, making twenty of the best range riders
ever assembled together for a single purpose, while we were mounted on
the best and fastest horses the Texas and Arizona cattle country could
produce, while a horse rustler had left four days before with twenty
more equally as good horses, giving each of us two horses apiece. We
carried with us four days' rations, consisting of dried beef, crackers,
potatoes, coffee--we had no sugar. The mess wagon well stocked with
provisions for a two months' trip had also left four days before for a
place in the wild horse district, where we knew the mustangs were to be
found.
Many of the cattle men of Texas and Arizona were present to see us off,
and the boss gave us a little talk on what was expected of us, and said,
among other things, we were twenty of the best and gamest cow boys who
ever roamed the western plains, and that he knew we would make good on
hearing these words--we one and all resolved to do our best.
And swinging into the saddle we emptied our guns as a parting salutation
and started on a dead run across the plains towards the scene of our
duty. After a hard ride of ten days we sighted a band of about
seventy-five mustangs. We at once proceeded to run them down. It was
decided that twenty of us should surround the herd in a large circle,
ten or fifteen miles across, which would leave a space of several miles
between each rider, but not of a greater distance than he could easily
cover when he saw the band coming his way or heard our signals.
The horse rustler was to keep the extra horses at a place where they
would be safe and at the same time handy to the riders. Our plans
completed, each rider made preparations to start for his station. But
here another difficulty arose. We had not yet seen anything of our cook
and mess wagon. It had not arrived at the place agreed upon, although it
had had ample time to do so. Our provisions which we carried were quite
low, so after waiting as long as we could, and the mess wagon failing to
show up, we decided to start the hunt and take our chances on grub from
what we could knock over with our guns.
Accordingly the boys all started out for their several stations. After
waiting a reasonable length of time to give them an opportunity to reach
their positions, we made for the herd, which as near as we could judge
contained about seventy-five of the prettiest horses it was ever my
pleasure to see. The magnificent stallion who happened to be on guard
had no sooner seen us than he gave the danger signal to the herd, who
were off like the wind, led by a beautiful snow white stallion. To get
them going was our only duty at present, and we well knew the importance
of saving our saddle horses for the more serious work before us.
Therefore we only walked our horses, or went on a dog trot, keeping a
sharp lookout for the herd's return.
The band of wild horses would run ten or fifteen miles across the
prairie, where they would catch sight of the other boys, then off they
would go in another direction, only to repeat the performance, as they
struck the other side of the circle. In this way they would make from
fifty to sixty miles to our ten, and we were slowly working them down.
We kept them going this way day and night, not giving them a moment's
rest or time to eat. After keeping them on the go this way for ten days
we were able to get within a mile of them and could see some of the
stallions taking turns at leading the herd, while other stallions would
be in the rear fighting them on. In a few days more we were near
enough to begin shooting the stallions out of the herd. Then we could
handle them a great deal better. At this time our want of grub began to
tell on us. Our cook and mess wagon had not showed up, so we had long
since given them up as lost. We believed they had been captured by the
Indians and future events proved we were right.
[Illustration: The Big Wild Mustang Hunt--We Were Roping and Riding Them
in Fox Canyon]
Our only food consisted of buffalo meat of which we were able to secure
plenty, but buffalo meat for breakfast, dinner and supper every day
without bread or salt is not the most palatable bill of fare, especially
when it is all we had day after day, without any prospect of a change
until we got home. But we were game and resolved to stay with our work
until it was finished, especially as we only had twenty men and everyone
was badly needed in the work ahead of us, so we did not think we could
spare a man to return home after grub. So we swallowed our buffalo meat
day after day and kept the horses moving.
They were now pretty well worked down, and we proceeded to work them
toward a place where we could begin to rope them. There were now only a
few stallions left in the herd as we had shot nearly all of them, and
the others were too tired to cause us any trouble. We had now been out
of grub over three weeks except buffalo meat and such other game as we
could bring down with our guns. Our fears that the cook and mess wagon
had been captured by the Indians proved well founded, as we about this
time met an outfit who had seen the place where the cook was killed.
They said the surroundings indicated that quite a large band had
surprised the cook and driver, but that they had put up a brave fight as
evidenced by the large number of empty rifle and revolver shells
scattered around. Our first impulse after hearing this was to start in
pursuit of the red skins and get revenge, but calmer judgment showed
that such a course would be useless, because the Indians had a couple of
weeks start of us and we did not know what tribe had committed the
offense as there were so many Indians in that part of the country and in
the Indian territory, and besides our horses were in no shape to chase
Indians, so much to our regret our comrades had to go unrevenged at
least for the present, but we all swore to make the Indians pay dearly,
especially the guilty ones, if it were possible to discover who they
were. We continued to work the mustangs back and forth, and in thirty
days from the time we started out we had about sixty head hemmed up in
Yellow Fox Canyon and were roping and riding them. They were not hard to
handle as they were so poor some of them could hardly walk. This was not
to be wondered at, as we had kept them on the go for the past thirty
days, never once giving them a moment's rest day or night, and in that
time they had very little to eat and no sleep. After roping and riding
them all we got them together and headed for home.
Arriving at the ranch the mustangs were allowed to eat all they wanted
and were roped and ridden until they were fairly well broken, when they
were turned out with the other ranch horses. They proved good saddle
horses, but as soon as they were turned out with the ranch horses they
would start for their old feeding grounds, leading the other horses with
them. We found it impossible to thoroughly domesticate them, so for that
reason we gave them up as a bad proposition, and did not attempt to
capture any more, though at that time thousands of wild mustangs were on
the plains of Texas, Arizona, Wyoming and in fact all over the West.
They were large, fine and as pretty a lot of horses as one could wish to
see. They were seldom molested, though once in a while the Indians would
make a campaign against them and capture a few, but not often, as they
were so hard to capture. It was not worth the trouble, as it was almost
impossible to approach them nearer than two miles, and there was always
some stallions on the lookout while the others grazed over the plains,
so it was out of the question to surprise them. At the first sign of
danger the stallion sentinel would give his shrill neigh of warning and
the herd were off like the wind.
We received unstinted praise from our employers for bringing to a
successful conclusion the errand on which we were sent under such trying
circumstances. But now that we were where grub was plentiful we looked
on our experience as nothing to make a fuss over.
But we deeply regretted the loss of our cook and mess wagon, and we
resolved that if we ever found the guilty parties to make it rather warm
for them. This we never did, neither did we ever hear more of the fate
of the cook. Our work, so far as trips on the trail were concerned, was
over for this season, and we could count on a long rest until spring, as
aside from range riding and feeding there was nothing doing around the
home ranch. But sometimes the range riding kept us on the go pretty
lively, especially during and after a big storm, which sometimes
scattered the cattle all over the surrounding country, and it would take
some lively riding to get them all together again. Then the Indians and
the white cattle thieves would make raids on our herds, running them off
in great numbers and stampeding the balance of the herd.
This generally resulted in us chasing them sometimes for miles over the
prairies, and we generally were successful in recovering our cattle and
punishing the cattle thieves in a manner that they did not soon forget.
But then again sometimes they would stampede the herd in the night, and
under the cover of darkness and the excitement would manage to make off
with some of the best horses or the choicest cattle, and by the time we
missed them the thieves would have such a start that it was impossible
to overtake them, but if they were overtaken, vengeance was swift and
sure.
CHAPTER XIII.
ON THE TRAIL WITH THREE THOUSAND HEAD OF TEXAS STEERS. RUMORS OF TROUBLE
WITH THE INDIANS AT DEADWOOD. THE ROPING CONTEST. I WIN THE NAME OF
DEADWOOD DICK. THE SHOOTING MATCH. THE CUSTER MASSACRE. THE VIEW OF THE
BATTLE FIELD. GOVERNMENT SCOUTS. AT HOME AGAIN.
In the spring of 1876 orders were received at the home ranch for three
thousand head of three-year-old steers to be delivered near Deadwood,
South Dakota. This being one of the largest orders we had ever received
at one time, every man around the ranch was placed on his mettle to
execute the order in record time.
Cow boys mounted on swift horses were dispatched to the farthest limits
of the ranch with orders to round up and run in all the three-year-olds
on the place, and it was not long before the ranch corrals began to fill
up with the long horns as they were driven by the several parties of cow
boys; as fast as they came in we would cut out, under the bosses' orders
such cattle as were to make up our herd.
[Illustration: The Roping Contests at Deadwood, S. D.]
In the course of three days we had our herd ready for the trail and we
made our preparations to start on our long journey north. Our route lay
through New Mexico, Colorado and Wyoming, and as we had heard rumors
that the Indians were on the war path and were kicking up something of a
rumpus in Wyoming, Indian Territory and Kansas, we expected trouble
before we again had the pleasure of sitting around our fire at the home
ranch. Quite a large party was selected for this trip owing to the size
of the herd and the possibility of trouble on the trail from the
Indians. We, as usual, were all well armed and had as mounts the best
horses our ranch produced, and in taking the trail we were perfectly
confident that we could take care of our herd and ourselves through
anything we were liable to meet. We had not been on the trail long
before we met other outfits who told us that General Custer was out
after the Indians and that a big fight was expected when the Seventh U.
S. Cavalry, General Custer's command, met the Crow tribe and other
Indians under the leadership of Sitting Bull, Rain-in-the-Face, Old
Chief Joseph, and other chiefs of lesser prominence, who had for a long
time been terrorizing the settlers of that section and defying the
Government.
[Illustration: I Rope, Throw, Saddle, Bridle and Mount My Mustang in
Nine Minutes]
As we proceeded on our journey it became evident to us that we were only
a short distance behind the soldiers. When finally the Indians and
soldiers met in the memorable battle or rather massacre in the Little
Big Horn Basin on the Little Big Horn River in northern Wyoming, we were
only two days behind them, or within 60 miles, but we did not know that
at the time or we would have gone to Custer's assistance. We did not
know of the fight or the outcome until several days after it was over.
It was freely claimed at the time by cattle men who were in a position
to know and with whom I talked that if Reno had gone to Custer's aid as
he promised to do, Custer would not have lost his entire command and his
life.
It was claimed Reno did not obey his orders, however that may be, it was
one of the most bloody massacres in the history of this country. We went
on our way to Deadwood with our herd, where we arrived on the 3rd of
July, 1876, eight days after the Custer massacre took place.
The Custer Battle was June 25, '76, the battle commenced on Sunday
afternoon and lasted about two hours. That was the last of General
Custer and his Seventh Cavalry. How I know this so well is because we
had orders from one of the Government scouts to go in camp, that if we
went any farther North we were liable to be captured by the Indians.
We arrived in Deadwood in good condition without having had any trouble
with the Indians on the way up. We turned our cattle over to their new
owners at once, then proceeded to take in the town. The next morning,
July 4th, the gamblers and mining men made up a purse of $200 for a
roping contest between the cow boys that were then in town, and as it
was a holiday nearly all the cow boys for miles around were assembled
there that day. It did not take long to arrange the details for the
contest and contestants, six of them being colored cow boys, including
myself. Our trail boss was chosen to pick out the mustangs from a herd
of wild horses just off the range, and he picked out twelve of the most
wild and vicious horses that he could find.
[Illustration: My First Indian Fight]
The conditions of the contest were that each of us who were mounted was
to rope, throw, tie, bridle and saddle and mount the particular horse
picked for us in the shortest time possible. The man accomplishing the
feat in the quickest time to be declared the winner.
It seems to me that the horse chosen for me was the most vicious of the
lot. Everything being in readiness, the "45" cracked and we all sprang
forward together, each of us making for our particular mustang.
I roped, threw, tied, bridled, saddled and mounted my mustang in exactly
nine minutes from the crack of the gun. The time of the next nearest
competitor was twelve minutes and thirty seconds. This gave me the
record and championship of the West, which I held up to the time I quit
the business in 1890, and my record has never been beaten. It is worthy
of passing remark that I never had a horse pitch with me so much as that
mustang, but I never stopped sticking my spurs in him and using my quirt
on his flanks until I proved his master. Right there the assembled crowd
named me Deadwood Dick and proclaimed me champion roper of the western
cattle country.
The roping contest over, a dispute arose over the shooting question with
the result that a contest was arranged for the afternoon, as there
happened to be some of the best shots with rifle and revolver in the
West present that day. Among them were Stormy Jim, who claimed the
championship; Powder Horn Bill, who had the reputation of never missing
what he shot at; also White Head, a half breed, who generally hit what
he shot at, and many other men who knew how to handle a rifle or
45-colt.
The range was measured off 100 and 250 yards for the rifle and 150 for
the Colt 45. At this distance a bulls eye about the size of an apple was
put up. Each man was to have 14 shots at each range with the rifle and
12 shots with the Colts 45. I placed every one of my 14 shots with the
rifle in the bulls eye with ease, all shots being made from the hip; but
with the 45 Colts I missed it twice, only placing 10 shots in the small
circle, Stormy Jim being my nearest competitor, only placing 8 bullets
in the bulls eye clear, the rest being quite close, while with the 45 he
placed 5 bullets in the charmed circle. This gave me the championship of
rifle and revolver shooting as well as the roping contest, and for that
day I was the hero of Deadwood, and the purse of $200 which I had won on
the roping contest went toward keeping things moving, and they did move
as only a large crowd of cattle men can move things. This lasted for
several days when most of the cattle men had to return to their
respective ranches, as it was the busy season, accordingly our outfit
began to make preparations to return to Arizona.
[Illustration: Indian Fight in Yellow Horse Canyon]
In the meantime news had reached us of the Custer massacre, and the
indignation and sorrow was universal, as General Custer was personally
known to a large number of the cattle men of the West. But we could do
nothing now, as the Indians were out in such strong force. There was
nothing to do but let Uncle Sam revenge the loss of the General and his
brave command, but it is safe to say not one of us would have hesitated
a moment in taking the trail in pursuit of the blood thirsty red skins
had the opportunity offered.
[Illustration: Crippled But Not Conquered--The Fight with Yellow Dog's
Tribe]
Everything now being in readiness with us we took the trail homeward
bound, and left Deadwood in a blaze of glory. On our way home we visited
the Custer battle field in the Little Big Horn Basin.
There was ample evidence of the desperate and bloody fight that had
taken place a few days before. We arrived home in Arizona in a short
time without further incident, except that on the way back we met and
talked with many of the famous Government scouts of that region, among
them Buffalo Bill (William F. Cody), Yellow Stone Kelley, and many
others of that day, some of whom are now living, while others lost their
lives in the line of duty, and a finer or braver body of men never
lived than these scouts of the West. It was my pleasure to meet Buffalo
Bill often in the early 70s, and he was as fine a man as one could wish
to meet, kind, generous, true and brave.
[Illustration: The Roping Contest at Deadwood, S. D.]
Buffalo Bill got his name from the fact that in the early days he was
engaged in hunting buffalo for their hides and furnishing U. P. Railroad
graders with meat, hence the name Buffalo Bill. Buffalo Bill,
Yellowstone Kelley, with many others were at this time serving under
Gen. C. C. Miles.
The name of Deadwood Dick was given to me by the people of Deadwood,
South Dakota, July 4, 1876, after I had proven myself worthy to carry
it, and after I had defeated all comers in riding, roping, and shooting,
and I have always carried the name with honor since that time.
We arrived at the home ranch again on our return from the trip to
Deadwood about the middle of September, it taking us a little over two
months to make the return journey, as we stopped in Cheyenne for several
days and at other places, where we always found a hearty welcome,
especially so on this trip, as the news had preceded us, and I received
enough attention to have given me the big head, but my head had
constantly refused to get enlarged again ever since the time I sampled
the demijohn in the sweet corn patch at home.
Arriving at home, we received a send off from our boss and our comrades
of the home ranch, every man of whom on hearing the news turned loose
his voice and his artillery in a grand demonstration in my honor.
But they said it was no surprise to them, as they had long known of my
ability with the rope, rifle and 45 Colt, but just the same it was
gratifying to know I had defeated the best men of the West, and brought
the record home to the home ranch in Arizona. After a good rest we
proceeded to ride the range again, getting our herds in good condition
for the winter now at hand.
CHAPTER XIV.
RIDING THE RANGE. THE FIGHT WITH YELLOW DOG'S TRIBE. I AM CAPTURED AND
ADOPTED BY THE INDIANS. MY ESCAPE. I RIDE A HUNDRED MILES IN TWELVE
HOURS WITHOUT A SADDLE. MY INDIAN PONY. "YELLOW DOG CHIEF." THE BOYS
PRESENT ME WITH A NEW OUTFIT. IN THE SADDLE AND ON THE TRAIL AGAIN.
It was a bright, clear fall day, October 4, 1876, that quite a large
number of us boys started out over the range hunting strays which had
been lost for some time. We had scattered over the range and I was
riding along alone when all at once I heard the well known Indian war
whoop and noticed not far away a large party of Indians making straight
for me. They were all well mounted and they were in full war paint,
which showed me that they were on the war path, and as I was alone and
had no wish to be scalped by them I decided to run for it. So I headed
for Yellow Horse Canyon and gave my horse the rein, but as I had
considerable objection to being chased by a lot of painted savages
without some remonstrance, I turned in my saddle every once in a while
and gave them a shot by way of greeting, and I had the satisfaction of
seeing a painted brave tumble from his horse and go rolling in the dust
every time my rifle spoke, and the Indians were by no means idle all
this time, as their bullets were singing around me rather lively, one of
them passing through my thigh, but it did not amount to much. Reaching
Yellow Horse Canyon, I had about decided to stop and make a stand when
one of their bullets caught me in the leg, passing clear through it and
then through my horse, killing him. Quickly falling behind him I used
his dead body for a breast work and stood the Indians off for a long
time, as my aim was so deadly and they had lost so many that they were
careful to keep out of range.
But finally my ammunition gave out, and the Indians were quick to find
this out, and they at once closed in on me, but I was by no means
subdued, wounded as I was and almost out of my head, and I fought with
my empty gun until finally overpowered. When I came to my senses I was
in the Indians' camp.
My wounds had been dressed with some kind of herbs, the wound in my
breast just over the heart was covered thickly with herbs and bound up.
My nose had been nearly cut off, also one of my fingers had been nearly
cut off. These wounds I received when I was fighting my captors with my
empty gun. What caused them to spare my life I cannot tell, but it was I
think partly because I had proved, myself a brave man, and all savages
admire a brave man and when they captured a man whose fighting powers
were out of the ordinary they generally kept him if possible as he was
needed in the tribe.
Then again Yellow Dog's tribe was composed largely of half breeds, and
there was a large percentage of colored blood in the tribe, and as I was
a colored man they wanted to keep me, as they thought I was too good a
man to die. Be that as it may, they dressed my wounds and gave me plenty
to eat, but the only grub they had was buffalo meat which they cooked
over a fire of buffalo chips, but of this I had all I wanted to eat. For
the first two days after my capture they kept me tied hand and foot. At
the end of that time they untied my feet, but kept my hands tied for a
couple of days longer, when I was given my freedom, but was always
closely watched by members of the tribe. Three days after my capture my
ears were pierced and I was adopted into the tribe. The operation of
piercing my ears was quite painful, in the method used, as they had a
small bone secured from a deer's leg, a small thin bone, rounded at the
end and as sharp as a needle. This they used to make the holes, then
strings made from the tendons of a deer were inserted in place of
thread, of which the Indians had none. Then horn ear rings were placed
in my ears and the same kind of salve made from herbs which they placed
on my wounds was placed on my ears and they soon healed.
[Illustration: I am Adopted by Yellow Dog's Tribe--The War Dance]
The bullet holes in my leg and breast also healed in a surprisingly
short time. That was good salve all right. As soon as I was well enough
I took part in the Indian dances. One kind or another was in progress
all the time. The war dance and the medicine dance seemed the most
popular. When in the war dance the savages danced around me in a circle,
making gestures, chanting, with every now and then a blood curdling
yell, always keeping time to a sort of music provided by stretching
buffalo skins tightly over a hoop.
When I was well enough I joined the dances, and I think I soon made a
good dancer. The medicine dance varies from the war dance only that in
the medicine dance the Indians danced around a boiling pot, the pot
being filled with roots and water and they dance around it while it
boils. The medicine dance occurs about daylight.
I very soon learned their ways and to understand them, though our
conversation was mostly carried on by means of signs. They soon gave me
to understand that I was to marry the chief's daughter, promising me 100
ponies to do so, and she was literally thrown in my arms; as for the
lady she seemed perfectly willing if not anxious to become my bride. She
was a beautiful woman, or rather girl; in fact all the squaws of this
tribe were good looking, out of the ordinary, but I had other notions
just then and did not want to get married under such circumstances, but
for prudence sake I seemed to enter into their plans, but at the same
time keeping a sharp lookout for a chance to escape. I noted where the
Indians kept their horses at night, even picking out the handsome and
fleet Indian pony which I meant to use should opportunity occur, and I
seemed to fall in with the Indians' plans and seemed to them so
contented that they gave me more and more freedom and relaxed the strict
watch they had kept on me, and finally in about thirty days from the
time of my capture my opportunity arrived.
[Illustration: My Escape--I Ride a Hundred Miles in Twelve Hours Without
a Saddle]
My wounds were now nearly well, and gave me no trouble. It was a dark,
cloudy night, and the Indians, grown careless in their fancied security,
had relaxed their watchfulness. After they had all thrown themselves on
the ground and the quiet of the camp proclaimed them all asleep I got up
and crawling on my hands and knees, using the greatest caution for fear
of making a noise, I crawled about 250 yards to where the horses were
picketed, and going to the Indian pony I had already picked out I
slipped the skin thong in his mouth which the Indians use for a bridle,
one which I had secured and carried in my shirt for some time for this
particular purpose, then springing to his back I made for the open
prairie in the direction of the home ranch in Texas, one hundred miles
away. All that night I rode as fast as my horse could carry me and the
next morning, twelve hours after I left the Indians camp I was safe on
the home ranch again. And my joy was without bounds, and such a
reception as I received from the boys. They said they were just one day
late, and if it hadn't been for a fight they had with some of the same
tribe, they would have been to my relief. As it was they did not expect
to ever see me again alive. But that they know that if the Indians did
not kill me, and gave me only half a chance I would get away from them,
but now that I was safe home again, nothing mattered much and nothing
was too good for me.
It was a mystery to them how I managed to escape death with such wounds
as I had received, the marks of which I will carry to my grave and it is
as much a mystery to me as the bullet that struck me in the breast just
over the heart passed clear through, coming out my back just below the
shoulder: Likewise the bullet in my leg passed clear through, then
through my horse, killing him.
Those Indians are certainly wonderful doctors, and then I am naturally
tough as I carry the marks of fourteen bullet wounds on different part
of my body, most any one of which would be sufficient to kill an
ordinary man, but I am not even crippled. It seems to me that if ever a
man bore a charm I am the man, as I have had five horses shot from under
me and killed, have fought Indians and Mexicans in all sorts of
situations, and have been in more tight places than I can number. Yet I
have always managed to escape with only the mark of a bullet or knife as
a reminder. The fight with the Yellow Dog's tribe is probably the
closest call I ever had, and as close a call as I ever want.
The fleet Indian pony which carried me to safety on that memorable
hundred mile ride, I kept for about five years. I named him "The Yellow
Dog Chief." And he lived on the best the ranch afforded, until his death
which occurred in 1881, never having anything to do except an occasional
race, as he could run like a deer. I thought too much of him to use him
on the trail and he was the especial pet of every one on the home ranch,
and for miles around.
I heard afterwards that the Indians persued me that night for quite a
distance, but I had too much the start and besides I had the fastest
horse the Indians owned. I have never since met any of my captors of
that time. As they knew better than to venture in our neighborhood
again. My wound healed nicely, thanks to the good attention the Indians
gave me. My captors took everything of value I had on me when captured.
My rifle which I especially prized for old associations sake; also my
forty fives, saddle and bridle, in fact my whole outfit leaving me only
the few clothes I had on at the time.
My comrades did not propose to let this bother me long, however, because
they all chipped in and bought me a new outfit, including the best rifle
and revolvers that could be secured, and I had my pick of the ranch
horses for another mount. During my short stay with the Indians I
learned a great deal about them, their ways of living, sports, dances,
and mode of warfare which proved of great benefit to me in after years.
The oblong shields they carried were made from tanned buffalo skins and
so tough were they made that an arrow would not pierce them although I
have seen them shoot an arrow clean through a buffalo. Neither will a
bullet pierce them unless the ball hits the shield square on, otherwise
it glances off.
All of them were exceedingly expert with the bow and arrow, and they
are proud of their skill and are always practicing in an effort to excel
each other. This rivalry extends even to the children who are seldom
without their bows and arrows.
They named me Buffalo Papoose, and we managed to make our wants known by
means of signs. As I was not with them a sufficient length of time to
learn their language, I learned from them that I had killed five of
their number and wounded three while they were chasing me and in the
subsequent fight with my empty gun. The wounded men were hit in many
places, but they were brought around all right, the same as I was. After
my escape and after I arrived home it was some time before I was again
called to active duty, as the boys would not hear of me doing anything
resembling work, until I was thoroughly well and rested up. But I soon
began to long for my saddle and the range.
And when orders were received at the ranch for 2000 head of cattle, to
be delivered at Dodge City, Kansas, I insisted on taking the trail
again. It was not with any sense of pride or in bravado that I recount
here the fate of the men who have fallen at my hand.
It is a terrible thing to kill a man no matter what the cause. But as I
am writing a true history of my life, I cannot leave these facts out.
But every man who died at my hands was either seeking my life or died in
open warfare, when it was a case of killing of being killed.
CHAPTER XV.
ON A TRIP TO DODGE CITY, KAN. I ROPE ONE OF UNCLE SAM'S CANNON. CAPTURED
BY THE SOLDIERS. BAT MASTERSON TO MY RESCUE. LOST ON THE PRAIRIE. THE
BUFFALO HUNTER CATER. MY HORSE GETS AWAY AND LEAVES ME ALONE ON THE
PRAIRIE. THE BLIZZARD. FROZEN STIFF.
In the spring of 1877, now fully recovered from the effects of the very
serious wounds I had received at the hands of the Indians and feeling my
old self again, I joined the boys in their first trip of the season,
with a herd of cattle for Dodge City. The trip was uneventful until we
reached our destination. This was the first time I had been in Dodge
City since I had won the name of "DEADWOOD DICK", and many of the boys,
who knew me when I first joined the cow boys there in 1869, were there
to greet me now. After our herd had been delivered to their new owners,
we started out to properly celebrate the event, and for a space of
several days we kept the old town on the jump.
And so when we finally started for home all of us had more or less of
the bad whiskey of Dodge City under our belts and were feeling rather
spirited and ready for anything.
I probably had more of the bad whiskey of Dodge City than any one and
was in consequence feeling very reckless, but we had about exhausted our
resources of amusement in the town, and so were looking for trouble on
the trail home.
On our way back to Texas, our way led past old Fort Dodge. Seeing the
soldiers and the cannon in the fort, a bright idea struck me, but a fool
one just the same. It was no less than a desire to rope one of the
cannons. It seemed to me that it would be a good thing to rope a cannon
and take it back to Texas with us to fight Indians with.
The bad whiskey which I carried under my belt was responsible for the
fool idea, and gave me the nerve to attempt to execute the idea. Getting
my lariat rope ready I rode to a position just opposite the gate of the
fort, which was standing open. Before the gate paced a sentry with his
gun on his shoulder and his white gloves showing up clean and white
against the dusty grey surroundings. I waited until the sentry had
passed the gate, then putting spurs to my horse I dashed straight for
and through the gate into the yard. The surprised sentry called halt,
but I paid no attention to him. Making for the cannon at full speed my
rope left my hand and settled square over the cannon, then turning and
putting spurs to my horse I tried to drag the cannon after me, but
strain as he might my horse was unable to budge it an inch. In the
meantime the surprised sentry at the gate had given the alarm and now I
heard the bugle sound, boots and saddles, and glancing around I saw the
soldiers mounting to come after me, and finding I could not move the
cannon, I rode close up to it and got my lariat off then made for the
gate again at full speed. The guard jumped in front of me with his gun
up, calling halt, but I went by him like a shot, expecting to hear the
crack of his musket, but for some reason he failed to fire on me, and I
made for the open prairie with the cavalry in hot pursuit.
My horse could run like a wild deer, but he was no match for the big,
strong, fresh horses of the soldiers and they soon had me. Relieving me
of my arms they placed me in the guard house where the commanding
officer came to see me. He asked me who I was and what I was after at
the fort. I told him and then he asked me if I knew anyone in the city.
I told him I knew Bat Masterson. He ordered two guards to take me to the
city to see Masterson. As soon as Masterson saw me he asked me what the
trouble was, and before I could answer, the guards told him I rode into
the fort and roped one of the cannons and tried to pull it out. Bat
asked me what I wanted with a cannon and what I intended doing with it.
I told him I wanted to take it back to Texas with me to fight the
Indians with; then they all laughed. Then Bat told them that I was all
right, the only trouble being that I had too much bad whiskey under my
shirt. They said I would have to set the drinks for the house. They came
to $15.00, and when I started to pay for them, Bat said for me to keep
my money that he would pay for them himself, which he did. Bat said that
I was the only cowboy that he liked, and that his brother Jim also
thought very much of me. I was then let go and I joined the boys and we
continued on our way home, where we arrived safely on the 1st of June,
1877.
[Illustration: I Rope One of Uncle Sam's Cannon--Fort Dodge, Kan.]
We at once began preparing for the coming big round up. As usual this
kept us very busy during the months of July and August, and as we
received no more orders for cattle this season, we did not have to take
the trail again, but after the round up was over, we were kept busy in
range riding, and the general all around work of the big cattle ranch.
We had at this time on the ranch upwards of 30,000 head of cattle, our
own cattle, not to mention the cattle belonging to the many other
interests without the Pan Handle country, and as all these immense herds
used the range of the country, in common as there was no fences to
divide the ranches, consequently the cattle belonging to the different
herds often got mixed up and large numbers of them strayed.
At the round ups it was our duty to cut out and brand the young calves,
take a census of our stock, and then after the round up was over we
would start out to look for possible strays. Over the range we would
ride through canyons and gorges, and every place where it was possible
for cattle to stray, as it was important to get them with the main herd
before winter set in, as if left out in small bunches there was danger
of them perishing in the frequent hard storms of the winter. While range
riding or hunting for strays, we always carried with us on our saddle
the branding irons of our respective ranches, and whenever we ran across
a calf that had not been branded we had to rope the calf, tie it, then a
fire was made of buffalo chips, the only fuel besides grass to be found
on the prairie.
[Illustration: I am Captured by the Soldiers]
The irons were heated and the calf was branded with the brand of the
finder, no matter who it personally belonged to. It now became the
property of the finder. The lost cattle were then driven to the main
herd. After they were once gotten together it was our duty to keep them
together during the winter and early spring. It was while out hunting
strays that I got lost, the first and only time I was ever lost in my
life, and for four days I had an experience that few men ever went
through and lived, as it was a close pull for me.
I had been out for several days looking for lost cattle and becoming
separated from the other boys and being in a part of the country
unfamiliar to me. It was stormy when I started out from the home ranch
and when I had ridden about a hundred miles from home it began to storm
in earnest, rain, hail, sleet, and the clouds seemed to touch the earth
and gather in their inpenetrable embrace every thing thereon. For a long
time I rode on in the direction of home, but as I could not see fifty
yards ahead it was a case of going it blind. After riding for many weary
hours through the storm I came across a little log cabin on the Palidore
river. I rode up to within one hundred yards of it where I was motioned
to stop by an old long haired man who stepped out of the cabin door with
a long buffalo gun on his arm. It was with this he had motioned me to
stop.
I promptly pulled up and raised my hat, which, according to the custom
of the cowboy country, gave him to understand I was a cowboy from the
western cow ranges. He then motioned me to come on. Riding up to the
cabin he asked me to dismount and we shook hands.
He said, when I saw you coming I said to myself that must be a lost
cowboy from some of the western cow ranges. I told him I was lost all
right, and I told him who I was and where from. Again we shook hands, he
saying as we did so, that we were friends until we met again, and he
hoped forever. He then told me to picket out my horse and come in and
have some supper, which very welcome invitation I accepted.
His cabin was constructed of rough hewn logs, somewhat after the fashion
of a Spanish block house. One part of it was constructed under ground, a
sort of dug out, while the upper portion of the cabin proper was
provided with many loop holes, commanding every direction.
He later told me these loop holes had stood him in handy many a time
when he had been attacked by Indians, in their efforts to capture him.
On entering his cabin I was amazed to see the walls covered with all
kinds of skins, horns, and antlers. Buffalo skins in great numbers
covered the floor and bed, while the walls were completely hidden behind
the skins of every animal of that region, including large number of
rattle snakes skins and many of their rattles.
His bed, which was in one corner of the dug out, was of skins, and to
me, weary from my long ride through the storm, seemed to be the most
comfortable place on the globe just then. He soon set before me a
bounteous supper, consisting of buffalo meat and corn dodgers, and
seldom before have I enjoyed a meal as I did that one. During supper he
told me many of his experiences in the western country. His name was
Cater, and he was one of the oldest buffalo hunters in that part of
Texas, having hunted and trapped over the wild country ever since the
early thirties, and during that time he had many a thrilling adventure
with Indians and wild animals.
I stayed with him that night and slept soundly on a comfortable bed he
made for me. The next morning he gave me a good breakfast and I prepared
to take my departure as the storm had somewhat moderated, and I was
anxious to get home, as the boys knowing I was out would be looking for
me if I did not show up in a reasonable time.
[Illustration: In My Fighting Clothes]
My kind host told me to go directly northwest and I would strike the
Calones flats, a place with which I was perfectly familiar. He said it
was about 75 miles from his place. Once there I would have no difficulty
in finding my way home. Cater put me up a good lunch to last me on my
way, and with many expressions of gratitude to him, I left him with his
skins and comfortable, though solitary life. All that day and part of
the night I rode in the direction he told me, until about 11 o'clock
when I became so tired I decided to go into camp and give my tired horse
a rest and a chance to eat. Accordingly I dismounted and removed the
saddle and bridle from my horse I hobbled him and turned him loose to
graze on the luxuriant grass, while I, tired out, laid down with my head
on my saddle fully dressed as I was, not even removing my belt
containing my 45 pistol from my waist, laying my Winchester close by.
The rain had ceased to fall, but it was still cloudy and threatening. It
was my intention to rest a few hours then continue on my way; and as I
could not see the stars on account of the clouds and as it was important
that I keep my direction northwest in order to strike the Flats, I had
carefully taken my direction before sundown, and now on moving my saddle
I placed it on the ground pointing in the direction I was going when I
stopped so that it would enable me to keep my direction when I again
started out. I had been laying there for some time and my horse was
quietly grazing about 20 yards off, when I suddenly heard something
squeal. It sounded like a woman's voice. It frightened my horse and he
ran for me. I jumped to my feet with my Winchester in my hand. This
caused my horse to rear and wheel and I heard his hobbles break with a
sharp snap. Then I heard the sound of his galloping feet going across
the Pan Handle plains until the sound was lost in the distance. Then I
slowly began to realize that I was left alone on the plains on foot, how
many miles from home I did not know. Remembering I had my guns all
right, it was my impulse to go in pursuit of my horse as I thought I
could eventually catch him after he had got over his scare, but when I
thought of my 40 pound saddle, and I did not want to leave that, so
saying to myself that is the second saddle I ever owned, the other
having been taken by the Indians when I was captured, and this saddle
was part of the outfit presented to me by the boys, and so tired and as
hungry as a hawk, I shouldered my saddle and started out in the
direction I was going when I went into camp, saying to myself as I did
so, if my horse could pack me and my outfit day and night I can at least
pack my outfit. Keeping my direction as well as I could I started out
over the prairie through the dark, walking all that night and all the
next day without anything to eat or drink until just about sundown and
when I had begun to think I would have to spend another night on the
prairie without food or drink, when I emerged from a little draw on to
a raise on the prairie, then looking over on to a small flat I saw a
large herd of buffalo. These were the first I had seen since I became
lost and the sight of them put renewed life and hope in me as I was then
nearly famished, and when I saw them I knew I had something to eat.
Off to one side about 20 yards from the main herd and about 150 yards
from me was a young calf. Placing my Winchester to my shoulder I glanced
along the shining barrel, but my hands shook so much I lowered it again,
not that I was afraid of missing it as I knew I was a dead shot at that
distance, but my weakness caused by my long enforced fast and my great
thirst made my eyes dim and my hands shake in a way they had never done
before, so waiting a few moments I again placed the gun to my shoulder
and this time it spoke and the calf dropped where it had stood. Picking
up my outfit I went down to where my supper was laying. I took out my
jack knife and commenced on one of his hind quarters. I began to skin
and eat to my hearts content, but I was so very thirsty. I had heard of
people drinking blood to quench their thirst and that gave me an idea,
so cutting the calf's throat with my knife I eagerly drank the fresh
warm blood.
It tasted very much like warm sweet milk. It quenched my thirst and made
me feel strong, when I had eaten all I could, I cut off two large chunks
of the meat and tied them to my saddle, then again shouldering the whole
thing I started on my way feeling almost as satisfied as if I had my
horse with me. I was lost two days, and two nights, after my horse left
me and all that time I kept walking packing my 40 pounds saddle and my
Winchester and two cattle pistols.
On the second night about daylight the weather became more threatening
and I saw in the distance a long column which looked like smoke. It
seemed to be coming towards me at the rate of a mile a minute. It did
not take it long to reach me, and when it did I struggled on for a few
yards but it was no use, tired as I was from packing my heavy outfit for
more than 48 hours and my long tramp, I had not the strength to fight
against the storm so I had to come alone. When I again came to myself I
was covered up head and foot in the snow, in the camp of some of my
comrades from the ranch.
It seemed from what I was told afterwards that the boys knowing I was
out in the storm and failing to show up, they had started out to look
for me, they had gone in camp during the storm and when the blizzard had
passed they noticed an object out on the prairie in the snow, with one
hand frozen, clenched around my Winchester and the other around the horn
of my saddle, and they had hard work to get my hands loose, they picked
me up and placed me on one of the horses and took me to camp where they
stripped me of my clothes and wrapped me up in the snow, all the skin
came off my nose and mouth and my hands and feet had been so badly
frozen that the nails all came off. After I had got thawed out in the
mess wagon and took me home in 15 days I was again in the saddle ready
for business but I will never forget those few days I was lost and the
marks of that storm I will carry with me always.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE OLD HAZE AND ELSWORTH TRAIL. OUR TRIP TO CHEYENNE. EX-SHERIFF PAT A.
GARRET. THE DEATH OF "BILLY THE KID". THE LINCOLN COUNTY CATTLE WAR.
Early the next spring 1878 we went on a short trip to Junction City,
Kan., with a small herd of horses for Hokin and Herst. We started out
from the home ranch early in April, stringing the herd out along the old
Haze and Elsworth trail. Everything went well until we were several days
out and we had went in camp for the night. The herd had been rounded up
and were grazing in the open prairie under the usual watch. And all the
cowboys except the first watch had turned in for a good night's rest,
when it began to storm finally developing into a genuine old fashioned
Texas storm, with the usual result that the herd stampeded.
The watch at once gave the alarm and we awoke to find everything in
confusion. It was a very dark night and under such circumstances it is
hard to control a herd of horses in a stampede. In a few moments every
man was in the saddle, as we always kept our saddle horses picketed out,
so they could not join the other horses. And it was our custom when on
the trail with a herd of horses on going into camp to leave our saddle
horses, saddled and bridled, merely loosing the cinches of the saddles
though sometimes we removed the bridles, to enable them to graze better.
So when the alarm was given in this instance, it did not take us long to
get in the saddle and after the horses who were now going across the
prairie as only frightened horses can go in a stampede.
The storm continued with more or less fury all night and it was late the
next day before we got the herd rounded up and under any sort of
control. The next morning we found that one of the boys, Frank Smith,
had lost his horse and outfit during the night. While chasing the horses
over the prairie, his horse stepped in a prairie dog's hole and fell.
Throwing his rider and snatching the rope out of Smith's hand, the horse
made off over the prairie carrying with him bridle, saddle and outfit,
and we never saw or heard of him again. After getting our breakfast, we
continued north, and all went well with us until we struck the Wakeeny
river, near Junction City, when in fording the stream. It was high water
and we were forced to swim our horses across. All went well with the
herd and the boys were following when one of them came near being
drowned, and was only saved by my quick rope.
I had entered the river and my horse was swimming easily, when on
glancing around I saw one of the boys, Loyd Hoedin by name, go under the
water. Both man and horse completely disappeared. They soon came up only
to disappear again. I saw at once something was wrong so when they came
up the second time I threw my rope. It fell near Hoedin, who had the
presence of mind to grasp it, and hold on while I snaked both man and
horse out to safety. After reaching Junction City and turning the herd
over to their new owners we started out to have the usual good time.
This lasted for several days during which time we cleaned up pretty near
all the money there was in the Junction with our horses in a six hundred
yard race, between ourselves and cow boys from different outfits who
happened to be in the city.
Our horses without exception proved the fastest runners, accordingly we
pocketed considerable coin, and in consequence we were feeling first
rate when we struck the trail homeward bound. We arrived at the home
ranch all right in June. This was the last trip we were called to make
this season, and our time for the remainder of the year was taken up
with the general routine work of the large cattle ranch.
Late the next season we took the trail en route to Cheyenne, Wyoming,
with two thousand head of fine Texas steers for the Swan Brothers, 20
miles northwest of Cheyenne. Nothing of unusual importance happened on
this trip aside from the regular incidents pertaining to driving such a
large herd of cattle on the trail. We had a few stampedes and lost a
few cattle, arriving in Cheyenne we had a royal good time for a few
days as usual before starting home. On arriving at the home ranch again
we found considerable excitement, owing to the war between the cattle
men and cattle rustlers and every man was needed at home and few there
were who did not take part in one way or another in the most bitter and
furious cattle war of history and I being one of the leading cowboys of
the West, necessarily took an active part in the dispute and many were
the sharp clashes between the waring factions that I witnessed and
fought in and was wounded many times in these engagements. For years the
cattle rustlers had been invading the large cattle ranges belonging to
the large cattle kings of the West and running off and branding large
numbers of choice cattle and horses, this led to many a sharp fight
between the cowboys and the rustlers, but of late these thieves had
become so bold and the losses of the cattle men had become so great that
the latter determined to put a stop to it, and so open war was declared.
On one side was the large ranchmen and cattle men and on the other the
Indians, half breeds, Mexicans and white outlaws that made the cattle
country their rendezvous. The cattle men had now organized with the
given determination of either killing or running out of the country for
good these thieves, who had caused them so much loss. And during the war
many of them cashed in and the others for the most part left for
pastures new, having been virtually whipped out of the country. It was a
desperate and bloody war while it lasted.
But it was satisfactory to the cattle men who could now rest easier in
the security of their herds and their grazing grounds. It was at this
time that I saw considerable of William H. Bonney alias "Billie the
kid", the most noted desperado and all around bad man the world has
known.