The Log of a Cowboy

A DRY DRIVE

Our cattle quieted down nicely after this run, and the next few weeks brought not an incident worth recording.  There was no regular trail through the lower counties, so we simply kept to the open country.  Spring had advanced until the prairies were swarded with grass and flowers, while water, though scarcer, was to be had at least once daily.  We passed to the west of San Antonio—­an outfitting point which all herds touched in passing northward—­and Flood and our cook took the wagon and went in for supplies.  But the outfit with the herd kept on, now launched on a broad, well-defined trail, in places seventy-five yards wide, where all local trails blent into the one common pathway, known in those days as the Old Western Trail.  It is not in the province of this narrative to deal with the cause or origin of this cattle trail, though it marked the passage of many hundred thousand cattle which preceded our Circle Dots, and was destined to afford an outlet to several millions more to follow.  The trail proper consisted of many scores of irregular cow paths, united into one broad passageway, narrowing and widening as conditions permitted, yet ever leading northward.  After a few years of continued use, it became as well defined as the course of a river.

Several herds which had started farther up country were ahead of ours, and this we considered an advantage, for wherever one herd could go, it was reasonable that others could follow.  Flood knew the trail as well as any of the other foremen, but there was one thing he had not taken into consideration:  the drouth of the preceding summer.  True, there had been local spring showers, sufficient to start the grass nicely, but water in such quantities as we needed was growing daily more difficult to find.  The first week after leaving San Antonio, our foreman scouted in quest of water a full day in advance of the herd.  One evening he returned to us with the news that we were in for a dry drive, for after passing the next chain of lakes it was sixty miles to the next water, and reports regarding the water supply even after crossing this arid stretch were very conflicting.

“While I know every foot of this trail through here,” said the foreman, “there’s several things that look scaly.  There are only five herds ahead of us, and the first three went through the old route, but the last two, after passing Indian Lakes, for some reason or other turned and went westward.  These last herds may be stock cattle, pushing out west to new ranges; but I don’t like the outlook.  It would take me two days to ride across and back, and by that time we could be two thirds of the way through.  I’ve made this drive before without a drop of water on the way, and wouldn’t dread it now, if there was any certainty of water at the other end.  I reckon there’s nothing to do but tackle her; but isn’t this a hell of a country?  I’ve ridden fifty miles to-day and never saw a soul.”

The Indian Lakes, some seven in number, were natural reservoirs with rocky bottoms, and about a mile apart.  We watered at ten o’clock the next day, and by night camped fifteen miles on our way.  There was plenty of good grazing for the cattle and horses, and no trouble was experienced the first night.  McCann had filled an extra twenty gallon keg for this trip.  Water was too precious an article to be lavish with, so we shook the dust from our clothing and went unwashed.  This was no serious deprivation, and no one could be critical of another, for we were all equally dusty and dirty.

The next morning by daybreak the cattle were thrown off the bed ground and started grazing before the sun could dry out what little moisture the grass had absorbed during the night.  The heat of the past week had been very oppressive, and in order to avoid it as much as possible, we made late and early drives.  Before the wagon passed the herd during the morning drive, what few canteens we had were filled with water for the men.  The remuda was kept with the herd, and four changes of mounts were made during the day, in order not to exhaust any one horse.  Several times for an hour or more, the herd was allowed to lie down and rest; but by the middle of the afternoon thirst made them impatient and restless, and the point men were compelled to ride steadily in the lead in order to hold the cattle to a walk.  A number of times during the afternoon we attempted to graze them, but not until the twilight of evening was it possible.

After the fourth change of horses was made, Honeyman pushed on ahead with the saddle stock and overtook the wagon.  Under Flood’s orders he was to tie up all the night horses, for if the cattle could be induced to graze, we would not bed them down before ten that night, and all hands would be required with the herd.  McCann had instructions to make camp on the divide, which was known to be twenty-five miles from our camp of the night before, or forty miles from the Indian Lakes.  As we expected, the cattle grazed willingly after nightfall, and with a fair moon, we allowed them to scatter freely while grazing forward.  The beacon of McCann’s fire on the divide was in sight over an hour before the herd grazed up to camp, all hands remaining to bed the thirsty cattle.  The herd was given triple the amount of space usually required for bedding, and even then for nearly an hour scarcely half of them lay down.

We were handling the cattle as humanely as possible under the circumstances.  The guards for the night were doubled, six men on the first half and the same on the latter, Bob Blades being detailed to assist Honeyman in night-herding the saddle horses.  If any of us got more than an hour’s sleep that night, he was lucky.  Flood, McCann, and the horse wranglers did not even try to rest.  To those of us who could find time to eat, our cook kept open house.  Our foreman knew that a well-fed man can stand an incredible amount of hardship, and appreciated the fact that on the trail a good cook is a valuable asset.  Our outfit therefore was cheerful to a man, and jokes and songs helped to while away the weary hours of the night.

The second guard, under Flood, pushed the cattle off their beds an hour before dawn, and before they were relieved had urged the herd more than five miles on the third day’s drive over this waterless mesa.  In spite of our economy of water, after breakfast on this third morning there was scarcely enough left to fill the canteens for the day.  In view of this, we could promise ourselves no midday meal—­except a can of tomatoes to the man; so the wagon was ordered to drive through to the expected water ahead, while the saddle horses were held available as on the day before for frequent changing of mounts.  The day turned out to be one of torrid heat, and before the middle of the forenoon, the cattle lolled their tongues in despair, while their sullen lowing surged through from rear to lead and back again in piteous yet ominous appeal.  The only relief we could offer was to travel them slowly, as they spurned every opportunity offered them either to graze or to lie down.

It was nearly noon when we reached the last divide, and sighted the scattering timber of the expected watercourse.  The enforced order of the day before—­to hold the herd in a walk and prevent exertion and heating—­now required four men in the lead, while the rear followed over a mile behind, dogged and sullen.  Near the middle of the afternoon, McCann returned on one of his mules with the word that it was a question if there was water enough to water even the horse stock.  The preceding outfit, so he reported, had dug a shallow well in the bed of the creek, from which he had filled his kegs, but the stock water was a mere loblolly.  On receipt of this news, we changed mounts for the fifth time that day; and Flood, taking Forrest, the cook, and the horse wrangler, pushed on ahead with the remuda to the waterless stream.

The outlook was anything but encouraging.  Flood and Forrest scouted the creek up and down for ten miles in a fruitless search for water.  The outfit held the herd back until the twilight of evening, when Flood returned and confirmed McCann’s report.  It was twenty miles yet to the next water ahead, and if the horse stock could only be watered thoroughly, Flood was determined to make the attempt to nurse the herd through to water.  McCann was digging an extra well, and he expressed the belief that by hollowing out a number of holes, enough water could be secured for the saddle stock.  Honeyman had corralled the horses and was letting only a few go to the water at a time, while the night horses were being thoroughly watered as fast as the water rose in the well.

Holding the herd this third night required all hands.  Only a few men at a time were allowed to go into camp and eat, for the herd refused even to lie down.  What few cattle attempted to rest were prevented by the more restless ones.  By spells they would mill, until riders were sent through the herd at a break-neck pace to break up the groups.  During these milling efforts of the herd, we drifted over a mile from camp; but by the light of moon and stars and the number of riders, scattering was prevented.  As the horses were loose for the night, we could not start them on the trail until daybreak gave us a change of mounts, so we lost the early start of the morning before.

Good cloudy weather would have saved us, but in its stead was a sultry morning without a breath of air, which bespoke another day of sizzling heat.  We had not been on the trail over two hours before the heat became almost unbearable to man and beast.  Had it not been for the condition of the herd, all might yet have gone well; but over three days had now elapsed without water for the cattle, and they became feverish and ungovernable.  The lead cattle turned back several times, wandering aimlessly in any direction, and it was with considerable difficulty that the herd could be held on the trail.  The rear overtook the lead, and the cattle gradually lost all semblance of a trail herd.  Our horses were fresh, however, and after about two hours’ work, we once more got the herd strung out in trailing fashion; but before a mile had been covered, the leaders again turned, and the cattle congregated into a mass of unmanageable animals, milling and lowing in their fever and thirst.  The milling only intensified their sufferings from the heat, and the outfit split and quartered them again and again, in the hope that this unfortunate outbreak might be checked.  No sooner was the milling stopped than they would surge hither and yon, sometimes half a mile, as ungovernable as the waves of an ocean.  After wasting several hours in this manner, they finally turned back over the trail, and the utmost efforts of every man in the outfit failed to check them.  We threw our ropes in their faces, and when this failed, we resorted to shooting; but in defiance of the fusillade and the smoke they walked sullenly through the line of horsemen across their front.  Six-shooters were discharged so close to the leaders’ faces as to singe their hair, yet, under a noonday sun, they disregarded this and every other device to turn them, and passed wholly out of our control.  In a number of instances wild steers deliberately walked against our horses, and then for the first time a fact dawned on us that chilled the marrow in our bones,—­the herd was going blind.

The bones of men and animals that lie bleaching along the trails abundantly testify that this was not the first instance in which the plain had baffled the determination of man.  It was now evident that nothing short of water would stop the herd, and we rode aside and let them pass.  As the outfit turned back to the wagon, our foreman seemed dazed by the sudden and unexpected turn of affairs, but rallied and met the emergency.

“There’s but one thing left to do,” said he, as we rode along, “and that is to hurry the outfit back to Indian Lakes.  The herd will travel day and night, and instinct can be depended on to carry them to the only water they know.  It’s too late to be of any use now, but it’s plain why those last two herds turned off at the lakes; some one had gone back and warned them of the very thing we’ve met.  We must beat them to the lakes, for water is the only thing that will check them now.  It’s a good thing that they are strong, and five or six days without water will hardly kill any.  It was no vague statement of the man who said if he owned hell and Texas, he’d rent Texas and live in hell, for if this isn’t Billy hell, I’d like to know what you call it.”

We spent an hour watering the horses from the wells of our camp of the night before, and about two o’clock started back over the trail for Indian Lakes.  We overtook the abandoned herd during the afternoon.  They were strung out nearly five miles in length, and were walking about a three-mile gait.  Four men were given two extra horses apiece and left to throw in the stragglers in the rear, with instructions to follow them well into the night, and again in the morning as long as their canteens lasted.  The remainder of the outfit pushed on without a halt, except to change mounts, and reached the lakes shortly after midnight.  There we secured the first good sleep of any consequence for three days.

It was fortunate for us that there were no range cattle at these lakes, and we had only to cover a front of about six miles to catch the drifting herd.  It was nearly noon the next day before the cattle began to arrive at the water holes in squads of from twenty to fifty.  Pitiful objects as they were, it was a novelty to see them reach the water and slack their thirst.  Wading out into the lakes until their sides were half covered, they would stand and low in a soft moaning voice, often for half an hour before attempting to drink.  Contrary to our expectation, they drank very little at first, but stood in the water for hours.  After coming out, they would lie down and rest for hours longer, and then drink again before attempting to graze, their thirst overpowering hunger.  That they were blind there was no question, but with the causes that produced it once removed, it was probable their eyesight would gradually return.

By early evening, the rear guard of our outfit returned and reported the tail end of the herd some twenty miles behind when they left them.  During the day not over a thousand head reached the lakes, and towards evening we put these under herd and easily held them during the night.  All four of the men who constituted the rear guard were sent back the next morning to prod up the rear again, and during the night at least a thousand more came into the lakes, which held them better than a hundred men.  With the recovery of the cattle our hopes grew, and with the gradual accessions to the herd, confidence was again completely restored.  Our saddle stock, not having suffered as had the cattle, were in a serviceable condition, and while a few men were all that were necessary to hold the herd, the others scoured the country for miles in search of any possible stragglers which might have missed the water.

During the forenoon of the third day at the lakes, Nat Straw, the foreman of Ellison’s first herd on the trail, rode up to our camp.  He was scouting for water for his herd, and, when our situation was explained and he had been interrogated regarding loose cattle, gave us the good news that no stragglers in our road brand had been met by their outfit.  This was welcome news, for we had made no count yet, and feared some of them, in their locoed condition, might have passed the water during the night.  Our misfortune was an ill wind by which Straw profited, for he had fully expected to keep on by the old route, but with our disaster staring him in the face, a similar experience was to be avoided.  His herd reached the lakes during the middle of the afternoon, and after watering, turned and went westward over the new route taken by the two herds which preceded us.  He had a herd of about three thousand steers, and was driving to the Dodge market.  After the experience we had just gone through, his herd and outfit were a welcome sight.  Flood made inquiries after Lovell’s second herd, under my brother Bob as foreman, but Straw had seen or heard nothing of them, having come from Goliad County with his cattle.

After the Ellison herd had passed on and out of sight, our squad which had been working the country to the northward, over the route by which the abandoned herd had returned, came in with the information that that section was clear of cattle, and that they had only found three head dead from thirst.  On the fourth morning, as the herd left the bed ground, a count was ordered, and to our surprise we counted out twenty-six head more than we had received on the banks of the Rio Grande a month before.  As there had been but one previous occasion to count, the number of strays absorbed into our herd was easily accounted for by Priest:  “If a steer herd could increase on the trail, why shouldn’t ours, that had over a thousand cows in it?” The observation was hardly borne out when the ages of our herd were taken into consideration.  But 1882 in Texas was a liberal day and generation, and “cattle stealing” was too drastic a term to use for the chance gain of a few cattle, when the foundations of princely fortunes were being laid with a rope and a branding iron.

In order to give the Ellison herd a good start of us, we only moved our wagon to the farthest lake and went into camp for the day.  The herd had recovered its normal condition by this time, and of the troubles of the past week not a trace remained.  Instead, our herd grazed in leisurely content over a thousand acres, while with the exception of a few men on herd, the outfit lounged around the wagon and beguiled the time with cards.

We had undergone an experience which my bunkie, The Rebel, termed “an interesting incident in his checkered career,” but which not even he would have cared to repeat.  That night while on night herd together—­the cattle resting in all contentment—­we rode one round together, and as he rolled a cigarette he gave me an old war story:—­

“They used to tell the story in the army, that during one of the winter retreats, a cavalryman, riding along in the wake of the column at night, saw a hat apparently floating in the mud and water.  In the hope that it might be a better hat than the one he was wearing, he dismounted to get it.  Feeling his way carefully through the ooze until he reached the hat, he was surprised to find a man underneath and wearing it.  ‘Hello, comrade,’ he sang out, ‘can I lend you a hand?’

“‘No, no,’ replied the fellow, ’I’m all right; I’ve got a good mule yet under me.’”