Reed Anthony, Cowman: An Autobiography

SUMMER OF ’68

The death of Mr. Loving ended my employment in driving cattle to Fort Sumner.  The junior member of the firm was anxious to continue the trade then established, but the absence of any protection against the Indians, either state or federal, was hopeless.  Texas was suffering from the internal troubles of Reconstruction, the paternal government had small concern for the welfare of a State recently in arms against the Union, and there was little or no hope for protection of life or property under existing conditions.  The outfit was accordingly paid off, and I returned with George Edwards to his father’s ranch.  The past eighteen months had given me a strenuous schooling, but I had emerged on my feet, feeling that once more I was entitled to a place among men.  The risk that had been incurred by the drovers acted like a physical stimulant, the outdoor life had hardened me like iron, and I came out of the crucible bright with the hope of youth and buoyant with health and strength.

Meanwhile there had sprung up a small trade in cattle with the North.  Baxter Springs and Abilene, both in Kansas, were beginning to be mentioned as possible markets, light drives having gone to those points during the present and previous summers.  The elder Edwards had been investigating the new outlet, and on the return of George and myself was rather enthusiastic over the prospects of a market.  No Indian trouble had been experienced on the northern route, and although demand generally was unsatisfactory, the faith of drovers in the future was unshaken.  A railroad had recently reached Abilene, stockyards had been built for the accommodation of shippers during the summer of 1861, while a firm of shrewd, far-seeing Yankees made great pretensions of having established a market and meeting-point for buyers and sellers of Texas cattle.  The promoters of the scheme had a contract with the railroad, whereby they were to receive a bonus on all cattle shipped from that point, and the Texas drovers were offered every inducement to make Abilene their destination in the future.  The unfriendliness of other States against Texas cattle, caused by the ravages of fever imparted by southern to domestic animals, had resulted in quarantine being enforced against all stock from the South.  Matters were in an unsettled condition, and less than one per cent of the State’s holdings of cattle had found an outside market during the year 1867, though ranchmen in general were hopeful.

I spent the remainder of the month of October at the Edwards ranch.  We had returned in time for the fall branding, and George and I both made acceptable hands at the work.  I had mastered the art of handling a rope, and while we usually corralled everything, scarcely a day passed but occasion occurred to rope wild cattle out of the brush.  Anxiety to learn soon made me an expert, and before the month ended I had caught and branded for myself over one hundred mavericks.  Cattle were so worthless that no one went to the trouble to brand completely; the crumbs were acceptable to me, and, since no one else cared for them and I did, the flotsam and jetsam of the range fell to my brand.  Had I been ambitious, double that number could have been easily secured, but we never went off the home range in gathering calves to brand.  All the hands on the Edwards ranch, darkies and Mexicans, were constantly throwing into the corrals and pointing out unclaimed cattle, while I threw and indelibly ran the figures “44” on their sides.  I was partial to heifers, and when one was sighted there was no brush so thick or animal so wild that it was not “fish” to my rope.  In many instances a cow of unknown brand was still followed by her two-year-old, yearling, and present calf.  Under the customs of the country, any unbranded animal, one year old or over, was a maverick, and the property of any one who cared to brand the unclaimed stray.  Thousands of cattle thus lived to old age, multiplied and increased, died and became food for worms, unowned.

The branding over, I soon grew impatient to be doing something.  There would be no movement in cattle before the following spring, and a winter of idleness was not to my liking.  Buffalo hunting had lost its charm with me, the contentious savages were jealous of any intrusion on their old hunting grounds, and, having met them on numerous occasions during the past eighteen months, I had no further desire to cultivate their acquaintance.  I still owned my horse, now acclimated, and had money in my purse, and one morning I announced my intention of visiting my other comrades in Texas.  Protests were made against my going, and as an incentive to have me remain, the elder Edwards offered to outfit George and me the following spring with a herd of cattle and start us to Kansas.  I was anxious for employment, but assuring my host that he could count on my services, I still pleaded my anxiety to see other portions of the State and renew old acquaintances.  The herd could not possibly start before the middle of April, so telling my friends that I would be on hand to help gather the cattle, I saddled my horse and took leave of the hospitable ranch.

After a week of hard riding I reached the home of a former comrade on the Colorado River below Austin.  A hearty welcome awaited me, but the apparent poverty of the family made my visit rather a brief one.  Continuing eastward, my next stop was in Washington County, one of the oldest settled communities in the State.  The blight of Reconstruction seemed to have settled over the people like a pall, the frontier having escaped it.  But having reached my destination, I was determined to make the best of it.  At the house of my next comrade I felt a little more at home, he having married since his return and being naturally of a cheerful disposition.  For a year previous to the surrender he and I had wrangled beef for the Confederacy and had been stanch cronies.  We had also been in considerable mischief together; and his wife seemed to know me by reputation as well as I knew her husband.  Before the wire edge wore off my visit I was as free with the couple as though they had been my own brother and sister.  The fact was all too visible that they were struggling with poverty, though lightened by cheerfulness, and to remain long a guest would have been an imposition; accordingly I began to skirmish for something to do—­anything, it mattered not what.  The only work in sight was with a carpet-bag dredging company, improving the lower Brazos River, under a contract from the Reconstruction government of the State.  My old crony pleaded with me to have nothing to do with the job, offering to share his last crust with me; but then he had not had all the animosities of the war roughed out of him, and I had.  I would work for a Federal as soon as any one else, provided he paid me the promised wage, and, giving rein to my impulse, I made application at the dredging headquarters and was put in charge of a squad of negroes.

I was to have sixty dollars a month and board.  The company operated a commissary store, a regular “pluck-me” concern, and I shortly understood the incentive in offering me such good wages.  All employees were encouraged and expected to draw their pay in supplies, which were sold at treble their actual value from the commissary.  I had been raised among negroes, knew how to humor and handle them, the work was easy, and I drifted along with all my faculties alert.  Before long I saw that the improvement of the river was the least of the company’s concern, the employment of a large number of men being the chief motive, so long as they drew their wages in supplies.  True, we scattered a few lodgments of driftwood; with the aid of a flat-bottomed scow we windlassed up and cut out a number of old snags, felled trees into the river to prevent erosion of its banks, and we built a large number of wind-dams to straighten or change the channel.  It seemed to be a blanket contract,—­a reward to the faithful,—­and permitted of any number of extras which might be charged for at any figures the contractors saw fit to make.  At the end of the first month I naturally looked for my wages.  Various excuses were made, but I was cordially invited to draw anything needed from the commissary.

A second month passed, during which time the only currency current was in the form of land certificates.  The Commonwealth of Texas, on her admission into the Union, retained the control of her lands, over half the entire area of the State being unclaimed at the close of the civil war.  The carpet-bag government, then in the saddle, was prodigal to its favorites in bonuses of land to any and all kinds of public improvement.  Certificates were issued in the form of scrip calling for sections of the public domain of six hundred and forty acres each, and were current at from three to five cents an acre.  The owner of one or more could locate on any of the unoccupied lands of the present State by merely surveying and recording his selection at the county seat.  The scrip was bandied about, no one caring for it, and on the termination of my second month I was offered four sections for my services up to date, provided I would remain longer in the company’s employ.  I knew the value of land in the older States, in fact, already had my eye on some splendid valleys on the Clear Fork, and accepted the offered certificates.  The idea found a firm lodgment in my mind, and I traded one of my six-shooters even for a section of scrip, and won several more in card games.  I had learned to play poker in the army,—­knew the rudiments of the game at least,—­and before the middle of March I was the possessor of certificates calling for thirty sections of land.  As the time was drawing near for my return to Palo Pinto County, I severed my connection with the dredging company and returned to the home of my old comrade.  I had left my horse with him, and under the pretense of paying for feeding the animal well for the return trip, had slipped my crony a small gold piece several times during the winter.  He ridiculed me over my land scrip, but I was satisfied, and after spending a day with the couple I started on my return.

Evidences of spring were to be seen on every hand.  My ride northward was a race with the season, but I outrode the coming grass, the budding trees, the first flowers, and the mating birds, and reached the Edwards ranch on the last day of March.  Any number of cattle had already been tendered in making up the herd, over half the saddle horses necessary were in hand or promised, and they were only awaiting my return.  I had no idea what the requirements of the Kansas market were, and no one else seemed to know, but it was finally decided to drive a mixed herd of twenty-five hundred by way of experiment.  The promoters of the Abilene market had flooded Texas with advertising matter during the winter, urging that only choice cattle should be driven, yet the information was of little value where local customs classified all live stock.  A beef was a beef, whether he weighed eight or twelve hundred pounds, a cow was a cow when over three years old, and so on to the end of the chapter.  From a purely selfish motive of wanting strong cattle for the trip, I suggested that nothing under three-year-olds should be used in making up the herd, a preference to be given matured beeves.  George Edwards also favored the idea, and as our experience in trailing cattle carried some little weight, orders were given to gather nothing that had not age, flesh, and strength for the journey.

I was to have fifty dollars a month and furnish my own mount.  Horses were cheap, but I wanted good ones, and after skirmishing about I secured four to my liking in return for one hundred dollars in gold.  I still had some money left from my wages in driving cattle to Fort Sumner, and I began looking about for oxen in which to invest the remainder.  Having little, I must be very careful and make my investment in something staple; and remembering the fine prices current in Colorado the spring before for work cattle, I offered to supply the oxen for the commissary.  My proposal was accepted, and accordingly I began making inquiry for wagon stock.  Finally I heard of a freight outfit in the adjoining county east, the owner of which had died the winter before, the administrator offering his effects for sale.  I lost no time in seeing the oxen and hunting up their custodian, who proved to be a frontier surveyor at the county seat.  There were two teams of six yoke each, fine cattle, and I had hopes of being able to buy six or eight oxen.  But the surveyor insisted on selling both teams, offering to credit me on any balance if I could give him security.  I had never mentioned my land scrip to any one, and wishing to see if it had any value, I produced and tendered the certificates to the surveyor.  He looked them over, made a computation, and informed me that they were worth in his county about five cents an acre, or nearly one thousand dollars.  He also offered to accept them as security, assuring me that he could use some of them in locating lands for settlers.  But it was not my idea to sell the land scrip, and a trade was easily effected on the twenty-four oxen, yokes, and chains, I paying what money I could spare and leaving the certificates for security on the balance.  As I look back over an eventful life, I remember no special time in which I felt quite as rich as the evening that I drove into the Edwards ranch with twelve yoke of oxen chained together in one team.  The darkies and Mexicans gathered about, even the family, to admire the big fellows, and I remember a thrill which shivered through me as Miss Gertrude passed down the column, kindly patting each near ox as though she felt a personal interest in my possessions.

We waited for good grass before beginning the gathering.  Half a dozen round-ups on the home range would be all that was necessary in completing the numbers allotted to the Edwards ranch.  Three other cowmen were going to turn in a thousand head and furnish and mount a man each, there being no occasion to road-brand, as every one knew the ranch, brands which would go to make up the herd.  An outfit of twelve men was considered sufficient, as it was an open prairie country and through civilized tribes between Texas and Kansas.  All the darkies and Mexicans from the home ranch who could be spared were to be taken along, making it necessary to hire only three outside men.  The drive was looked upon as an experiment, there being no outlay of money, even the meal and bacon which went into the commissary being supplied from the Edwards household.  The country contributed the horses and cattle, and if the project paid out, well and good; if not there was small loss, as they were worth nothing at home.  The 20th of April was set for starting.  Three days’ work on the home range and we had two thousand cattle under herd, consisting of dry or barren cows and steers three years old or over, fully half the latter being heavy beeves.  We culled back and trimmed our allotment down to sixteen hundred, and when the outside contingents were thrown in we had a few over twenty-eight hundred cattle in the herd.  A Mexican was placed in charge of the remuda, a darky, with three yoke of oxen, looked after the commissary, and with ten mounted men around the herd we started.

Five and six horses were allotted to the man, each one had one or two six-shooters, while half a dozen rifles of different makes were carried in the wagon.  The herd moved northward by easy marches, open country being followed until we reached Red River, where we had the misfortune to lose George Edwards from sickness.  He was the foreman from whom all took orders.  While crossing into the Chickasaw Nation it was necessary to swim the cattle.  We cut them into small bunches, and in fording and refording a whole afternoon was spent in the water.  Towards evening our foreman was rendered useless from a chill, followed by fever during the night.  The next morning he was worse, and as it was necessary to move the herd out to open country, Edwards took an old negro with him and went back to a ranch on the Texas side.  Several days afterward the darky overtook us with the word that his master would be unable to accompany the cattle, and that I was to take the herd through to Abilene.  The negro remained with us, and at the first opportunity I picked up another man.  Within a week we encountered a country trail, bearing slightly northwest, over which herds had recently passed.  This trace led us into another, which followed up the south side of the Washita River, and two weeks after reaching the Nation we entered what afterward became famous as the Chisholm trail.  The Chickasaw was one of the civilized tribes; its members had intermarried with the whites until their identity as Indians was almost lost.  They owned fine homes and farms in the Washita valley, were hospitable to strangers, and where the aboriginal blood was properly diluted the women were strikingly beautiful.  In this same valley, fifteen years afterward, I saw a herd of one thousand and seven head of corn-fed cattle.  The grain was delivered at feed-lots at ten cents a bushel, and the beeves had then been on full feed for nine months.  There were no railroads in the country and the only outlet for the surplus corn was to feed it to cattle and drive them to some shipping-point in Kansas.

Compared with the route to Fort Sumner, the northern one was a paradise.  No day passed but there was an abundance of water, while the grass simply carpeted the country.  We merely soldiered along, crossing what was then one of the No-man’s lands and the Cherokee Outlet, never sighting another herd until after entering Kansas.  We amused ourselves like urchins out for a holiday, the country was full of all kinds of game, and our darky cook was kept busy frying venison and roasting turkeys.  A calf was born on the trail, the mother of which was quite gentle, and we broke her for a milk cow, while “Bull,” the youngster, became a great pet.  A cow-skin was slung under the wagon for carrying wood and heavy cooking utensils, and the calf was given a berth in the hammock until he was able to follow.  But when Bull became older he hung around the wagon like a dog, preferring the company of the outfit to that of his own mother.  He soon learned to eat cold biscuit and corn-pone, and would hang around at meal-time, ready for the scraps.  We always had to notice where the calf lay down to sleep, as he was a black rascal, and the men were liable to stumble over him while changing guards during the night.  He never could be prevailed on to walk with his mother, but followed the wagon or rode in his hammock, and was always happy as a lark when the recipient of the outfit’s attentions.  We sometimes secured as much as two gallons of milk a day from the cow, but it was pitiful to watch her futile efforts at coaxing her offspring away from the wagon.

We passed to the west of the town of Wichita and reached our destination early in June.  There I found several letters awaiting me, with instructions to dispose of the herd or to report what was the prospect of effecting a sale.  We camped about five miles from Abilene, and before I could post myself on cattle values half a dozen buyers had looked the herd over.  Men were in the market anxious for beef cattle with which to fill army and Indian contracts, feeders from Eastern States, shippers and speculators galore, cowmen looking for she stuff with which to start new ranches, while scarcely a day passed but inquiry was made by settlers for oxen with which to break prairie.  A dozen herds had arrived ahead of us, the market had fairly opened, and, once I got the drift of current prices, I was as busy as a farmer getting ready to cut his buckwheat.  Every yoke of oxen was sold within a week, one ranchman took all the cows, an army contractor took one thousand of the largest beeves, feeders from Iowa took the younger steers, and within six weeks after arriving I did not have a hoof left.  In the mean time I kept an account of each sale, brands and numbers, in order to render a statement to the owners of the cattle.  As fast as the money was received I sent it home by drafts, except the proceeds from the oxen, which was a private matter.  I bought and sold two whole remudas of horses on speculation, clearing fifteen of the best ones and three hundred dollars on the transactions.

The facilities for handling cattle at Abilene were not completed until late in the season of ’67, yet twenty-five thousand cattle found a market there that summer and fall.  The drive of the present year would triple that number, and every one seemed pleased with future prospects.  The town took on an air of frontier prosperity; saloons and gambling and dance halls multiplied, and every legitimate line of business flourished like a green bay tree.  I made the acquaintance of every drover and was generally looked upon as an extra good salesman, the secret being in our cattle, which were choice.  For instance, Northern buyers could see three dollars a head difference in three-year-old steers, but with the average Texan the age classified them all alike.  My boyhood knowledge of cattle had taught me the difference, but in range dealing it was impossible to apply the principle.  I made many warm friends among both buyers and drovers, bringing them together and effecting sales, and it was really a matter of regret that I had to leave before the season was over.  I loved the atmosphere of dicker and traffic, had made one of the largest sales of the season with our beeves, and was leaving, firm in the conviction that I had overlooked no feature of the market of future value.

After selling the oxen we broke some of our saddle stock to harness, altered the wagon tongue for horses, and started across the country for home, taking our full remuda with us.  Where I had gone up the trail with five horses, I was going back with twenty; some of the oxen I had sold at treble their original cost, while none of them failed to double my money—­on credit.  Taking it all in all, I had never seen such good times and made money as easily.  On the back track we followed the trail, but instead of going down the Washita as we had come, we followed the Chisholm trail to the Texas boundary, crossing at what was afterward known as Red River Station.  From there home was an easy matter, and after an absence of four months and five days the outfit rode into the Edwards ranch with a flourish.