A LONELY TRIP DOWN THE CIMERON.
The next morning after the steer racket I pulled out for Kiowa, Kansas.
It was then sleeting from the north, consequently I had to face it.
About three o'clock in the evening I changed my notion and concluded to
head for Texas. So I turned east, down the Eagle Chief, to where it
emptied into the Cimeron, and thence down that stream; knowing that I
was bound to strike the Chisholm trail--the one I came up on, the spring
before.
I camped that night at the mouth of Eagle Chief, and went to roost on an
empty stomach, not having brought any grub with me. I was then in the
western edge of what is known as the Black-jack country, which extends
east far beyond the Chisholm trail.
The next morning I continued down the Cimeron, through Black-jack timber
and sand hills. To avoid the sand hills, which appeared fewer on the
opposite side, I undertook to cross the river, but bogged down in the
quicksand and had to turn back.
That night I camped between two large sand hills and made my bed in a
tall bunch of blue-stem grass. I went to bed as full as a tick, as I had
just eaten a mule-eared rabbit, one I had slipped up onto and killed
with a club. I was afraid to shoot at the large droves of deer and
turkeys, on account of the country being full of fresh indian signs.
I crawled out of my nest next morning almost frozen. I built a roaring
big fire on the _south_ edge of the bunch of tall grass so as to check
the cold piercing norther. After enjoying the warm fire a few moments, I
began to get thirsty and there being no water near at hand, I took my
tin cup and walked over to a large snow-drift a short distance off, to
get it full of clean snow, which I intended melting by the fire to
quench my burning thirst.
While filling the cup I heard a crackling noise behind me and looking
over my shoulder discovered a blaze of fire twenty feet in the air and
spreading at a terrible rate. I arrived on the scene just in time to
save Whisky-peat from a horrible death. He was tied to a tree, the top
limbs of which were already in a blaze. I also managed to save my
saddle and an old piece of saddle blanket, they being out under the tree
that Whisky-peat was tied to. I didn't mind losing my leather leggins,
saddle blankets, etc., so much as I did the old delapidated overcoat
that contained a little silver-plated match box in one of the pockets.
That day I traveled steady, but not making very rapid progress, on
account of winding around sand hills, watching for indians and going
around the heads of boggy sloughs. I was certain of striking the
Chisholm trail before night, but was doomed to disappointment.
I pitched camp about nine o'clock that night and played a single-handed
game of freeze-out until morning, not having any matches to make a fire
with.
I hadn't gone more than two miles next morning when I came across a
camp-fire, which looked as though it had been used a few hours before;
on examination I found it had been an indian camp, just vacated that
morning. The trail, which contained the tracks of forty or fifty head of
horses, led down the river. After warming myself I struck right out on
their trail, being very cautious not to run onto them. Every now and
then I would dismount and crawl to the top of a tall sand hill to see
that the road was clear ahead.
About noon I came to a large creek, which proved to be "Turkey Creek."
The reds had made a good crossing by digging the banks down and breaking
the ice.
After crossing, I hadn't gone but a short distance when I came in sight
of the Chisholm trail. I never was so glad to see anything
before--unless it was the little streak of daylight under the steer's
flanks.
The indians on striking the trail had struck south on it; and after
crossing the Cimeron I came in sight of them, about five miles ahead of
me. I rode slow so as to let them get out of sight. I didn't care to
come in contact with them for fear they might want my horse and possibly
my scalp.
About dark that evening I rode into a large camp of Government
freighters, who informed me that the fifty indians who had just
passed--being on their way back to the reservation--were Kiowas who had
been on a hunting expedition.
I fared well that night, got a good supper and a warm bed to sleep
in--besides a good square meal of corn and oats for my horse.
The next morning before starting on my journey, an old irish teamster by
the name of "Long Mike" presented me with a pair of pants--mine being
almost in rags--and a blue soldier coat, which I can assure you I
appreciated very much.
About dusk that evening, I rode into Cheyenne Agency and that night
slept in a house for the first time since leaving Kiowa--in fact I
hadn't seen a house since leaving Kiowa.
The next morning I continued south and that night put up at "Bill"
Williams' ranch on the "South Canadian" river.
Shortly after leaving the Williams ranch next morning I met a crowd of
Chickasaw indians who bantered me for a horse race. As Whisky-peat was
tired and foot-sore, I refused; but they kept after me until finally I
took them up. I put up my saddle and pistol against one of their ponies.
The pistol I kept buckled around me for fear they might try to swindle
me. The saddle I put up and rode the race bare-back. I came out ahead,
but not enough to brag about. They gave up the pony without a murmer,
but tried to persuade me to run against one of their other ponies, a
much larger and finer looking one. I rode off thanking them very kindly
for what they had already done for me.
That night I put up at a ranch on the Washita river and next morning
before leaving swapped my indian pony off for another one and got ten
dollars to-boot.
That morning I left the Chisholm trail and struck down the Washita
river, in search of a good, lively place where I might put in the
balance of the winter.
I landed in Erin Springs late that evening and found a grand ball in
full bloom at Frank Murry's mansion. The dancers were a mixed crowd, the
ladies being half-breeds and the men, mostly americans and very tough
citizens.
Of course I joined the mob, being in search of excitement and had a gay
old time drinking kill-me-quick whisky and swinging the pretty indian
maidens.
After breakfast next morning the whole crowd, ladies and all, went down
the river five miles to witness a "big" horse race at "Kickapoo" flat.
After the "big" race--which was for several thousand dollars--was over
the day was spent in running pony races and drinking whisky. By night
the whole mob were gloriously drunk, your humble servant included. There
were several fights and fusses took place during the day, but no one
seriously hurt.
It being against the laws of the United States to sell, or have whisky
in the Indian territory, you might wonder where it came from: A man by
the name of Bill Anderson--said to have been one of Quantrell's men
during the war--did the selling.
He defied the United States marshalls and it was said that he had over a
hundred indictments against him. He sold it at ten dollars a gallon,
therefore you see he could afford to run quite a risk.
The next day on my way down the river to Paul's valley I got rid of my
extra pony; I came across two apple peddlers who were on their way to
Fort Sill with a load of apples and who had had the misfortune of losing
one of their horses by death, the night before, thereby leaving them on
the prairie helpless, unable to move on. They had no money to buy
another horse with, having spent all their surplus wealth in Arkansas
for the load of apples. When I gave them the pony, they felt very happy
judging from their actions. On taking my departure one of them insisted
on my taking his silver watch as a token of friendship. I afterwards had
the watch stolen from me.
Well, patient reader, I will now drop the curtain for awhile. Just
suffice it to say I had a tough time of it during the rest of the winter
and came out carrying two bullet wounds. But I had some gay times as
well as tough and won considerable money running Whisky-peat.
The following May I landed in Gainesville, Texas, "right side up with
care" and from there went to Saint Joe on the Chisholm trail, where I
succeeded in getting a job with a passing herd belonging to Capt.
Littlefield of Gonzales. The boss' name was "Jim" Wells and the herd
contained thirty-five hundred head of stock cattle. It being a terribly
wet season we experienced considerable hardships, swimming swollen
streams, etc. We also had some trouble with indians.
We arrived in Dodge City, Kansas on the third day of July and that night
I quit and went to town to "whoop 'em up Liza Jane."
I met an old friend that night by the name of "Wess" Adams and we both
had a gay time, until towards morning when he got severely stabbed in a
free-to-all fight.
On the morning of July fifth I hired to David T. Beals--or the firm of
Bates & Beals, as the outfit was commonly called--to help drive a herd
of steers, twenty-five hundred head, to the Panhandle of Texas, where he
intended starting a new ranch.
The next morning we struck out on the "Old Fort Bascom" trail, in a
southwesterly direction.
The outfit consisted of eight men besides the boss, Bill Allen and
"Deacon" Bates, one of Mr. Beals' silent partners, who was going along
to locate the new range and O. M. Johnson, the whole-souled ex-rebel
cook. We had six extra good horses apiece, my six being named as
follows: Comanche, Allisan, Last Chance, Creeping Moses, Damfido and
Beat-and-be-damned. The last named was afterwards shot full of arrows
because he wouldn't hurry while being driven off by a band of indians
who had made a raid on the camp.