Produced by Dianna Adair, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
A TEXAS COW BOY
OR
FIFTEEN YEARS ON THE HURRICANE
DECK OF A SPANISH PONY.
TAKEN FROM REAL LIFE BY
Chas. A. Siringo.
AN OLD STOVE UP COW PUNCHER WHO
HAS SPENT NEARLY A LIFE TIME ON THE
GREAT WESTERN
CATTLE RANGES.
GLOBE LITHOGRAPHING & PRINTING CO. CHICAGO
Illustration: REPRESENTATION OF LIFE IN A COW CAMP.
Illustration: THE AUTHOR, IN COW BOY UNIFORM.
A TEXAS COW BOY
OR,
FIFTEEN YEARS
ON THE
Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony.
TAKEN FROM REAL LIFE
BY
CHAS. A. SIRINGO,
AN OLD STOVE UP "COW PUNCHER," WHO HAS SPENT
NEARLY TWENTY YEARS ON THE GREAT
WESTERN CATTLE RANGES.
M. UMBDENSTOCK & CO., Publishers,
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS.
1885.
Illustration: THE AUTHOR
after he became stove-up--financially, as well as otherwise.
INDEX.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. My Boyhood Days 13
II. My Introduction to the late war 20
III. My First Lesson in Cow Punching 31
IV. My second experience in St. Louis 43
V. A New experience 53
VI. Adopted and sent to school 61
VII. Back at last to the Lone Star State 68
VIII. Learning to rope wild steers 75
IX. Owning my first cattle 84
X. A start up the Chisholm trail 95
XI. Buys a boat and becomes a sailor 103
XII. Back to my favorite occupation, that of
a wild and woolly Cow Boy 112
XIII. Mother and I meet at last 119
XIV. On a tare in Wichita, Kansas 129
XV. A lonely trip down the Cimeron 141
XVI. My first experience roping a Buffalo 150
XVII. An exciting trip after thieves 158
XVIII. Seven weeks among Indians 164
XIX. A lonely ride of eleven hundred miles 176
XX. Another start up the Chisholm trail 186
XXI. A trip which terminated in the capture
of "Billy the Kid" 196
XXII. Billy the Kid's capture 215
XXIII. A trip to the Rio Grande on a mule 223
XXIV. Waylaid by unknown parties 231
XXV. Lost on the Staked Plains 239
XXVI. A trip down the Reo Pecos 255
XXVII. A true sketch of "Billy the Kid's" life 269
XXVIII. Wrestling with a dose of Small Pox on
the Llano Esticado 285
XXIX. In love with a Mexican girl 299
XXX. A sudden leap from Cow Boy to Merchant 309
Copyrighted by CHAS. A. SIRINGO, Caldwell, Kans.
All rights reserved.
PREFACE.
My excuse for writing this book is money--and lots of it.
I suppose the above would suffice, but as time is not very precious I
will continue and tell how the idea of writing a book first got into my
head:
While ranching on the Indian Territory line, close to Caldwell, Kansas,
in the winter of '82 and '83, we boys--there being nine of us--made an
iron-clad rule that whoever was heard swearing or caught picking grey
backs off and throwing them on the floor without first killing them,
should pay a fine of ten cents for each and every offense. The proceeds
to be used for buying choice literature--something that would have a
tendency to raise us above the average cow-puncher. Just twenty-four
hours after making this rule we had three dollars in the pot--or at
least in my pocket, I having been appointed treasurer.
As I was going to town that night to see my Sunday girl, I proposed to
the boys that, while up there, I send the money off for a years
subscription to some good newspaper. The question then came up, what
paper shall it be? We finally agreed to leave it to a vote--each man to
write the one of his choice on a slip of paper and drop it in a hat.
There being two young Texans present who could neither read nor write,
we let them _speak_ their choice after the rest of us got our votes
deposited. At the word given them to cut loose they both yelled "Police
Gazette", and on asking why they voted for that wicked Sheet, they both
replied as though with one voice: "Cause we can read the pictures." We
found, on counting the votes that the Police Gazette had won, so it was
subscribed for.
With the first copy that arrived was the beginning of a continued story,
entitled "Potts turning Paris inside out." Mr. Potts, the hero, was an
old stove-up New York preacher, who had made a raise of several hundred
thousand dollars and was over in Paris blowing it in. I became
interested in the story, and envied Mr. Potts very much. I wished for a
few hundred thousand so I could do likewise; I lay awake one whole night
trying to study up a plan by which I could make the desired amount. But,
thinks I, what can an uneducated cow puncher do now-a-days to make such
a vast sum? In trying to solve the question my mind darted back a few
years, when, if I had taken time by the forelock, I might have now been
wallowing in wealth with the rest of the big cattle kings--or to use a
more appropriate name, cattle thieves. But alas! thought I, the days of
honorable cattle stealing is past, and I must turn my mind into a
healthier channel.
The next morning while awaiting breakfast I happened to pick up a small
scrap of paper and read: "To the young man of high aims literature
offers big inducements, providing he gets into an untrodden field."
That night I lay awake again, trying to locate some "cussed" untrodden
field, where, as an author, I might soar on high--to the extent of a few
hundred thousand at least.
At last, just as our pet rooster, "Deacon Bates" was crowing for day, I
found a field that I had never heard of any one trampling over--a
"nigger" love story. So that night I launched out on my new novel, the
title of which was, "A pair of two-legged coons." My heroine, Miss Patsy
Washington was one shade darker than the ace of spades, while her lover,
Mr. Andrew Jackson, was three colors darker than herself. My plot was
laid in African Bend on the Colorado river in Southern Texas.
Everything went on nicely, until about half way through the first
chapter, when Mr. Jackson was convicted and sent to Huntsville for
stealing a neighbors hog; and while I was trying to find a substitute
for him, old Patsy flew the track and eloped with a Yankee
carpet-bagger. That was more than I could endure, so picking up the
manuscript I threw it into the fire. Thus ended my first attempt at
Authorship.
I then began figuring up an easier field for my inexperienced pen, and
finally hit upon the idea of writing a history of my own short, but
rugged life, which dear reader you have before you. But whether it will
bring me in "shekels" enough to capsize Paris remains yet to be
"disskivered" as the Negro says.
A TEXAS COW BOY.
CHAPTER I.
MY BOYHOOD DAYS.
It was a bright morning, on the 7th day of February 1856, as near as I
can remember, that your humble Servant came prancing into this wide and
wicked world.
By glancing over the map you will find his birthplace, at the extreme
southern part of the Lone Star State, on the Peninsula of Matagorda, a
narrow strip of land bordered by the Gulf of Mexico on the south and
Matagorda Bay on the north.
This Peninsula is from one to two miles wide and seventy five miles
long. It connects the mainland at Caney and comes to a focus at Deskrows
Point or "Salura Pass." About midway between the two was situated the
"Dutch Settlement," and in the centre of that Settlement, which
contained only a dozen houses, stood the little frame cottage that first
gave me shelter.
My father who died when I was only a year old, came from the sunny clime
of Italy, while my dear old mother drifted from the Boggs of good "ould"
Ireland. Am I not a queer conglomerate--a sweet-scented mixture indeed!
Our nearest neighbor was a kind old soul by the name of John Williams,
whose family consisted of his wife and eleven children.
In the fall of 1859 I took my first lessons in school, my teacher being
a Mr. Hale from Illinois.
The school house, a little old frame building, stood off by itself,
about a mile from the Settlement, and we little tow-heads, sister and I,
had to hoof it up there every morning, through the grassburrs,
barefooted; our little sunbrowned feet had never been incased in
shoe-leather up to that time.
To avoid the grassburrs, sometimes on getting an early start we would go
around by the Gulf beach which was quite a distance out of our way. In
taking this route though, I would generally be late at school, for there
were so many little things to detain me--such as trying to catch the
shadow of a flying sea gull, or trying to lasso sand crabs on my stick
horse.
Crowds of Cow Boys used to come over to the Peninsula from the mainland
and sometimes have occasion to rope wild steers in my presence--hence me
trying to imitate them.
I remember getting into a scrape once by taking the beach route to
school; sister who was a year older than I, was walking along the water
edge picking up pretty shells while I was riding along on my stick horse
taking the kinks out of my rope--a piece of fishline--so as to be ready
to take in the first crab that showed himself. Those crabs went in large
droves and sometimes ventured quite a distance out from the Gulf, but on
seeing a person would break for the water.
It was not long before I spied a large drove on ahead, pulling their
freight for the water. I put spurs to my pony and dashed after them. I
managed to get one old fat fellow headed off and turned towards the
prairie. I threw at him several times but he would always go through the
loop before I could pull it up. He finally struck a hole and
disappeared.
I was determined to get him out and take another whirl at him, so
dropping my horse and getting down on all fours I began digging the
sand away with my hands, dog fashion.
About that time sister came up and told me to come on as I would be late
at school, etc.
I think I told her to please go to Halifax, as I was going to rope that
crab before I quit or "bust." At any rate she went off, leaving me
digging with all my might.
Every now and then I would play dog by sticking my snoot down in the
hole to smell. But I rammed it down once too often. Mr. Crab was nearer
the surface than I thought for. He was laying for me. I gave a comanche
yell, jumped ten feet in the air and lit out for home at a 2:40 gait.
One of his claws was fastened to my upper lip while the other clamped my
nose with an iron-like grip.
I met Mr. William Berge coming out to the beach after a load of wood,
and he relieved me of my uncomfortable burden. He had to break the crabs
claws off to get him loose.
I arrived at school just as Mr. Hale was ringing the bell after recess.
He called me up and wanted to know what was the matter with my face, it
was so bloody. Being a little George W., minus the hatchet, I told him
the truth. Suffice to say he laid me across his knee and made me think
a nest of bumble bees were having a dance in the seat of my breeches--or
at least where the seat should have been. I never had a pair of pants on
up to that time. Had worn nothing but a long white shirt made of a flour
sack after some of the "big bugs" in Matagorda had eaten the flour out.
The fall of 1861 Mr. Hale broke up school and left for Yankeedom to join
the blue coats. And from that time on I had a regular picnic, doing
nothing and studying mischief. Billy Williams was my particular chum; we
were constantly together doing some kind of devilment. The old women
used to say we were the meanest little imps in the Settlement, and that
we would be hung before we were twenty-one. Our three favorite passtimes
were, riding the milk calves, coon hunting and sailing play-boats down
on the bay shore.
Shortly after school broke up I wore my first pair of breeches. Uncle
"Nick" and aunt "Mary," mothers' brother and sister, who lived in
Galveston, sent us a trunk full of clothes and among them was a pair of
white canvas breeches for me.
The first Sunday after the goods arrived mother made me scour myself all
over and try my new pants on. They were large enough for two kids of my
size, but mother said I could wear them that day if I would be a good
boy, and that she would take a few tucks in them before the next Sunday.
So after getting me fixed up she told me not to leave the yard or she
would skin me alive, etc.
Of course I should have been proud of the new addition to my wardrobe
and like a good little boy obeyed my mother; but I wasn't a good little
boy and besides the glory of wearing white pants was insignificant
compared to that of an exciting coon hunt with dogs through brush,
bramble and rushes. You see I had promised Billy the evening before to
go coon hunting with him that day.
I watched my chance and while mother was dressing sister in her new
frock I tiptoed out of the house and skipped.
Billy was waiting for me with the four dogs and off we went for the Bay
shore.
Arriving there the dogs disappeared in the tall rushes barking at every
jump; we jumped right in after them, up to our waists in the mud. We had
a genuine good all-day coon hunt, killing several coons and one wild
cat.
We gave up the hunt about sundown, and I started for home, the glory of
my new pants having departed. I was indeed a sorry looking sight,
covered with mud from head to foot.
I entered the house with some fear and trembling, and well I might, for
mother was "laying" for me with the old black strap. The result was I
slept sound that night, but couldn't sit down without pain for a week
afterwards.