MY FIRST EXPERIENCE ROPING A BUFFALO.
About the sixth day out from Dodge we crossed the Cimeron and that
evening I had a little excitement chasing a herd of buffaloes.
After crossing the river about noon, we drove out to the divide, five or
six miles and made a "dry" camp. It was my evening to lay in camp, or do
anything else I wished. Therefore concluded I would saddle my little
indian mare--one I had traded for from an indian--and take a hunt.
About the time I was nearly ready to go Mr. Bates, seeing some of the
cattle slipping off into a bunch of sand hills which were near the herd,
asked me if I wouldn't ride out and turn them back. I went, leaving my
pistol and gun in camp, thinking of course that I would be back in a few
minutes. But instead of that I didn't get back until after dinner the
next day.
Just as I was starting back to camp, after turning the cattle, a large
herd of buffaloes dashed by camp headed west. The boys all ran out with
their guns and began firing. I became excited and putting spurs to my
pony, struck out to overtake and kill a few of them, forgetting that I
didn't have anything to shoot with. As they had over a mile the start it
wasn't an easy matter to overtake them. It was about four o'clock in the
afternoon and terribly hot; which of course cut off my pony's wind and
checked her speed to a great extent.
About sundown I overtook them. Their tongues were sticking out a yard. I
took down my rope from the saddle-horn, having just missed my shooting
irons a few minutes before, and threw it onto a yearling heifer. When
the rope tightened the yearling began to bleat and its mammy broke back
out of the herd and took after me. I tried to turn the rope loose so as
to get out of the way, but couldn't, as it was drawn very tight around
the saddle-horn. To my great delight, after raking some of the surplus
hair from my pony's hind quarters, she turned and struck out after the
still fleeing herd.
Now the question arose in my mind, "how are you going to kill your
buffalo?" Break her neck was the only way I could think of; after
trying it several times by running "against" the rope at full speed, I
gave it up as a failure. I then concluded to cut the rope and let her
go, so getting out my old frog-sticker--an old pocket knife I had picked
up a few days before and which I used to clean my pipe--I went to work
trying to open the little blade it being the only one that would cut hot
butter. The big blade was open when I found it, consequently it was
nothing but a sheet of rust. The little blade had become rusted
considerably, which made it hard to open. Previous to that I always used
my bowie knife, which at that time was hanging to my pistol belt, in
camp, to open it with. After working a few minutes I gave up the notion
of opening the little blade and went to work sawing at the rope with the
big one. But I soon gave that up also, as I could have made just as much
headway by cutting with my finger. At last I dismounted and went to him,
or at least her, with nothing but my muscle for a weapon.
I finally managed to get her down by getting one hand fastened to her
under jaw and the other hold of one horn and then twisting her neck. As
some of you might wonder why I had so much trouble with this little
animal, when it is a known fact that one man by himself can tie down the
largest domestic bull that ever lived, I will say that the difference
between a buffalo and a domestic bull is, that the latter when you throw
him hard against the ground two or three times, will lie still long
enough to give you a chance to jump aboard of him, while the former will
raise to his feet, instantly, just as long as there's a bit of life
left.
After getting her tied down with my "sash," a silk concern that I kept
my breeches up with, I went to work opening the little blade of my
knife. I broke the big one off and then used it for a pry to open the
other with.
When I got her throat cut I concluded it a good idea to take the hide
along, to show the boys that I didn't have my run for nothing, so went
to work skinning, which I found to be a tedious job with such a small
knife-blade.
It was pitch dark when I started towards camp with the hide and a small
chunk of meat tied behind my saddle.
After riding east about a mile, I abandoned the idea of going to camp
and turned south facing the cool breeze in hopes of finding water, my
pony and I both being nearly dead for a drink.
It was at least twenty miles to camp over a level, dry plain, therefore
I imagined it an impossibility to go that distance without water. As the
streams all lay east and west in that country, I knew by going south I
was bound to strike one sooner or later.
About midnight I began to get sleepy, so, pulling the bridle off my pony
so she could graze, I spread the buffalo hide down, hair up, and after
wrapping the end of the rope, that my pony was fastened to around my
body once or twice so she couldn't get loose without me knowing it, fell
asleep.
I hadn't slept long when I awoke, covered from head to foot with ants.
The fresh hide had attracted them.
After freeing myself of most of the little pests I continued my journey
in search of water.
About three o'clock in the morning I lay down again, but this time left
the hide on my saddle.
I think I must have been asleep about an hour when all at once my pony
gave a tremendous snort and struck out at full speed, dragging me after
her.
You see I had wrapped the rope around my body as before and it held me
fast some way or another; I suppose by getting tangled. Luckily for me
though it came loose after dragging me about a hundred yards.
You can imagine my feelings on gaining my feet, and finding myself
standing on the broad prairie afoot. I felt just like a little boy does
when he lets a bird slip out of his hand accidently--that
is--exceedingly foolish.
The earth was still shaking and I could hear a roaring noise like that
of distant thunder. A large herd of buffaloes had just passed.
While standing scratching my head a faint noise greeted my ear; it was
my pony snorting. A tramp of about three hundred yards brought me to
her. She was shaking as though she had a chill. I mounted and continued
my journey south, determined on not stopping any more that night.
About ten o'clock next morning I struck water on the head of Sharp's
creek, a tributary to "Beaver" or head of North Canadian.
When I got to camp--it having been moved south about twenty miles from
where I left it--the boys had just eaten dinner and two of them were
fixing to go back and hunt me up, thinking some sad misfortune had
befallen me.
When we got to Blue Creek, a tributary to South Canadian, camp was
located for awhile, until a suitable location could be found for a
permanent ranch.
Mr. Bates struck out across the country to the Canadian river, taking me
along, to hunt the range--one large enough for at least fifty thousand
cattle.
After being out three days we landed in Tascosa, a little mexican town
on the Canadian. There were only two americans there, Howard &
Reinheart, who kept the only store in town. Their stock of goods
consisted of three barrels of whisky and half a dozen boxes of soda
crackers.
From there we went down the river twenty-five miles where we found a
little trading point, consisting of one store and two mexican families.
The store, which was kept by a man named Pitcher, had nothing in it but
whisky and tobacco. His customers were mostly transient buffalo hunters,
they being mostly indians and mexicans. He also made a business of
dealing in robes, furs, etc., which he shipped to Fort Lyons, Colorado,
where his partner, an officer in the United States Army lived. There
were three hundred Apache indians camped right across the river from
"Cold Springs," as Pitcher called his ranch.
A few miles below where the little store stood Mr. Bates decided on
being the center of the "L. X." range; and right there, Wheeler
post-office now stands. And that same range, which was then black with
buffaloes, is now stocked with seventy-five thousand fine blooded
cattle, and all fenced in. So you see time makes changes, even out here
in the "western wilds."