The Log of a Cowboy

DOAN’S CROSSING

It was a nice open country between the Wichita and Pease rivers.  On reaching the latter, we found an easy stage of water for crossing, though there was every evidence that the river had been on a recent rise, the débris of a late freshet littering the cutbank, while high-water mark could be easily noticed on the trees along the river bottom.  Summer had advanced until the June freshets were to be expected, and for the next month we should be fortunate if our advance was not checked by floods and falling weather.  The fortunate stage of the Pease encouraged us, however, to hope that possibly Red River, two days’ drive ahead, would be fordable.  The day on which we expected to reach it, Flood set out early to look up the ford which had then been in use but a few years, and which in later days was known as Doan’s Crossing on Red River.  Our foreman returned before noon and reported a favorable stage of water for the herd, and a new ferry that had been established for wagons.  With this good news, we were determined to put that river behind us in as few hours as possible, for it was a common occurrence that a river which was fordable at night was the reverse by daybreak.  McCann was sent ahead with the wagon, but we held the saddle horses with us to serve as leaders in taking the water at the ford.

The cattle were strung out in trailing manner nearly a mile, and on reaching the river near the middle of the afternoon, we took the water without a halt or even a change of horses.  This boundary river on the northern border of Texas was a terror to trail drovers, but on our reaching it, it had shallowed down, the flow of water following several small channels.  One of these was swimming, with shallow bars intervening between the channels.  But the majestic grandeur of the river was apparent on every hand,—­with its red, bluff banks, the sediment of its red waters marking the timber along its course, while the driftwood, lodged in trees and high on the banks, indicated what might be expected when she became sportive or angry.  That she was merciless was evident, for although this crossing had been in use only a year or two when we forded, yet five graves, one of which was less than ten days made, attested her disregard for human life.  It can safely be asserted that at this and lower trail crossings on Red River, the lives of more trail men were lost by drowning than on all other rivers together.  Just as we were nearing the river, an unknown horseman from the south overtook our herd.  It was evident that he belonged to some through herd and was looking out the crossing.  He made himself useful by lending a hand while our herd was fording, and in a brief conversation with Flood, informed him that he was one of the hands with a “Running W” herd, gave the name of Bill Mann as their foreman, the number of cattle they were driving, and reported the herd as due to reach the river the next morning.  He wasted little time with us, but recrossed the river, returning to his herd, while we grazed out four or five miles and camped for the night.

I shall never forget the impression left in my mind of that first morning after we crossed Red River into the Indian lands.  The country was as primitive as in the first day of its creation.  The trail led up a divide between the Salt and North forks of Red River.  To the eastward of the latter stream lay the reservation of the Apaches, Kiowas, and Comanches, the latter having been a terror to the inhabitants of western Texas.  They were a warlike tribe, as the records of the Texas Rangers and government troops will verify, but their last effective dressing down was given them in a fight at Adobe Walls by a party of buffalo hunters whom they hoped to surprise.  As we wormed our way up this narrow divide, there was revealed to us a panorama of green-swarded plain and timber-fringed watercourse, with not a visible evidence that it had ever been invaded by civilized man, save cattlemen with their herds.  Antelope came up in bands and gratified their curiosity as to who these invaders might be, while old solitary buffalo bulls turned tail at our approach and lumbered away to points of safety.  Very few herds had ever passed over this route, but buffalo trails leading downstream, deep worn by generations of travel, were to be seen by hundreds on every hand.  We were not there for a change of scenery or for our health, so we may have overlooked some of the beauties of the landscape.  But we had a keen eye for the things of our craft.  We could see almost back to the river, and several times that morning noticed clouds of dust on the horizon.  Flood noticed them first.  After some little time the dust clouds arose clear and distinct, and we were satisfied that the “Running W” herd had forded and were behind us, not more than ten or twelve miles away.

At dinner that noon, Flood said he had a notion to go back and pay Mann a visit.  “Why, I’ve not seen ‘Little-foot’ Bill Mann,” said our foreman, as he helped himself to a third piece of “fried chicken” (bacon), “since we separated two years ago up at Ogalalla on the Platte.  I’d just like the best in the world to drop back and sleep in his blankets one night and complain of his chuck.  Then I’d like to tell him how we had passed them, starting ten days’ drive farther south.  He must have been amongst those herds laying over on the Brazos.”

“Why don’t you go, then?” said Fox Quarternight.  “Half the outfit could hold the cattle now with the grass and water we’re in at present.”

“I’ll go you one for luck,” said our foreman.  “Wrangler, rustle in your horses the minute you’re through eating.  I’m going visiting.”

We all knew what horse he would ride, and when he dropped his rope on “Alazanito,” he had not only picked his own mount of twelve, but the top horse of the entire remuda,—­a chestnut sorrel, fifteen hands and an inch in height, that drew his first breath on the prairies of Texas.  No man who sat him once could ever forget him.  Now, when the trail is a lost occupation, and reverie and reminiscence carry the mind back to that day, there are friends and faces that may he forgotten, but there are horses that never will be.  There were emergencies in which the horse was everything, his rider merely the accessory.  But together, man and horse, they were the force that made it possible to move the millions of cattle which passed up and over the various trails of the West.

When we had caught our horses for the afternoon, and Flood had saddled and was ready to start, he said to us, “You fellows just mosey along up the trail.  I’ll not be gone long, but when I get back I shall expect to find everything running smooth.  An outfit that can’t run itself without a boss ought to stay at home and do the milking.  So long, fellows!”

The country was well watered, and when rounded the cattle into the bed ground that night, they were actually suffering from stomachs gorged with grass and water.  They went down and to sleep like tired children; one man could have held them that night.  We all felt good, and McCann got up an extra spread for supper.  We even had dried apples for dessert.  McCann had talked the storekeeper at Doan’s, where we got our last supplies, out of some extras as a pelon.  Among them was a can of jam.  He sprung this on us as a surprise.  Bob Blades toyed with the empty can in mingled admiration and disgust over a picture on the paper label.  It was a supper scene, every figure wearing full dress.  “Now, that’s General Grant,” said he, pointing with his finger, “and this is Tom Ochiltree.  I can’t quite make out this other duck, but I reckon he’s some big auger—­a senator or governor, maybe.  Them old girls have got their gall with them.  That style of dress is what you call lo and behold.  The whole passel ought to be ashamed.  And they seem to be enjoying themselves, too.”

Though it was a lovely summer night, we had a fire, and supper over, the conversation ranged wide and free.  As the wagon on the trail is home, naturally the fire is the hearthstone, so we gathered and lounged around it.

“The only way to enjoy such a fine night as this,” remarked Ash, “is to sit up smoking until you fall asleep with your boots on.  Between too much sleep and just enough, there’s a happy medium which suits me.”

“Officer,” inquired Wyatt Roundtree, trailing into the conversation very innocently, “why is it that people who live up among those Yankees always say ‘be’ the remainder of their lives?”

“What’s the matter with the word?” countered Officer.

“Oh, nothing, I reckon, only it sounds a little odd, and there’s a tale to it.”

“A story, you mean,” said Officer, reprovingly.

“Well, I’ll tell it to you,” said Roundtree, “and then you can call it to suit yourself.  It was out in New Mexico where this happened.  There was a fellow drifted into the ranch where I was working, dead broke.  To make matters worse, he could do nothing; he wouldn’t fit anywhere.  Still, he was a nice fellow and we all liked him.  Must have had a good education, for he had good letters from people up North.  He had worked in stores and had once clerked in a bank, at least the letters said so.  Well, we put up a job to get him a place in a little town out on the railroad.  You all know how clannish Kentuckians are.  Let two meet who never saw each other before, and inside of half an hour they’ll be chewing tobacco from the same plug and trying to loan each other money.”

“That’s just like them,” interposed Fox Quarternight.

“Well, there was an old man lived in this town, who was the genuine blend of bluegrass and Bourbon.  If another Kentuckian came within twenty miles of him, and he found it out, he’d hunt him up and they’d hold a two-handed reunion.  We put up the job that this young man should play that he was a Kentuckian, hoping that the old man would take him to his bosom and give him something to do.  So we took him into town one day, coached and fully posted how to act and play his part.  We met the old man in front of his place of business, and, after the usual comment on the news over our way, weather, and other small talk, we were on the point of passing on, when one of our own crowd turned back and inquired, ’Uncle Henry, have you met the young Kentuckian who’s in the country?’

“‘No,’ said the old man, brightening with interest, ’who is he and where is he?’

“‘He’s in town somewhere,’ volunteered one of the boys.  We pretended to survey the street from where we stood, when one of the boys blurted out, ’Yonder he stands now.  That fellow in front of the drug store over there, with the hard-boiled hat on.’

“The old man started for him, angling across the street, in disregard of sidewalks.  We watched the meeting, thinking it was working all right.  We were mistaken.  We saw them shake hands, when the old man turned and walked away very haughtily.  Something had gone wrong.  He took the sidewalk on his return, and when he came near enough to us, we could see that he was angry and on the prod.  When he came near enough to speak, he said, ’You think you’re smart, don’t you?  He’s a Kentuckian, is he?  Hell’s full of such Kentuckians!’ And as he passed beyond hearing he was muttering imprecations on us.  The young fellow joined us a minute later with the question, ’What kind of a crank is that you ran me up against?’

“‘He’s as nice a man as there is in this country,’ said one of the crowd.  ‘What did you say to him?’

“‘Nothing’; he came up to me, extended his hand, saying, “My young friend, I understand that you’re from Kentucky.”  “I be, sir,” I replied, when he looked me in the eye and said, “You’re a G——­ d——­ liar,” and turned and walked away.  Why, he must have wanted to insult me.  And then we all knew why our little scheme had failed.  There was food and raiment in it for him, but he would use that little word ‘be.’”

“Did any of you notice my saddle horse lie down just after we crossed this last creek this afternoon?” inquired Rod Wheat.

“No; what made him lie down?” asked several of the boys.

“Oh, he just found a gopher hole and stuck his forefeet into it one at a time, and then tried to pull them both out at once, and when he couldn’t do it, he simply shut his eyes like a dying sheep and lay down.”

“Then you’ve seen sheep die,” said the horse wrangler.

“Of course I have; a sheep can die any time he makes up his mind to by simply shutting both eyes—­then he’s a goner.”

Quince Forrest, who had brought in his horse to go out with the second watch, he and Bob Blades having taken advantage of the foreman’s absence to change places on guard for the night, had been listening to the latter part of Wyatt’s yarn very attentively.  We all hoped that he would mount and ride out to the herd, for though he was a good story-teller and meaty with personal experiences, where he thought they would pass muster he was inclined to overcolor his statements.  We usually gave him respectful attention, but were frequently compelled to regard him as a cheerful, harmless liar.  So when he showed no disposition to go, we knew we were in for one from him.

“When I was boss bull-whacker,” he began, “for a big army sutler at Fort Concho, I used to make two round trips a month with my train.  It was a hundred miles to wagon from the freight point where we got our supplies.  I had ten teams, six and seven yoke to the team, and trail wagons to each.  I was furnished a night herder and a cook, saddle horses for both night herder and myself.  You hear me, it was a slam up fine layout.  We could handle three or four tons to the team, and with the whole train we could chamber two car loads of anything.  One day we were nearing the fort with a mixed cargo of freight, when a messenger came out and met us with an order from the sutler.  He wanted us to make the fort that night and unload.  The mail buckboard had reported us to the sutler as camped out back on a little creek about ten miles.  We were always entitled to a day to unload and drive back to camp, which gave us good grass for the oxen, but under the orders the whips popped merrily that afternoon, and when they all got well strung out, I rode in ahead, to see what was up.  Well, it seems that four companies of infantry from Fort McKavett, which were out for field practice, were going to be brought into this post to be paid three months’ wages.  This, with the troops stationed at Concho, would turn loose quite a wad of money.  The sutler called me into his office when I reached the fort, and when he had produced a black bottle used for cutting the alkali in your drinking water, he said, ’Jack,’—­he called me Jack; my full name is John Quincy Forrest,—­’Jack, can you make the round trip, and bring in two cars of bottled beer that will be on the track waiting for you, and get back by pay day, the 10th?’

“I figured the time in my mind; it was twelve days.

“’There’s five extra in it for each man for the trip, and I’ll make it right with you,’ he added, as he noticed my hesitation, though I was only making a mental calculation.

“‘Why, certainly, Captain,’ I said.  ’What’s that fable about the jack rabbit and the land tarrapin?’ He didn’t know and I didn’t either, so I said to illustrate the point:  ’Put your freight on a bull train, and it always goes through on time.  A race horse can’t beat an ox on a hundred miles and repeat to a freight wagon.’  Well, we unloaded before night, and it was pitch dark before we made camp.  I explained the situation to the men.  We planned to go in empty in five days, which would give us seven to come back loaded.  We made every camp on time like clockwork.  The fifth morning we were anxious to get a daybreak start, so we could load at night.  The night herder had his orders to bring in the oxen the first sign of day, and I called the cook an hour before light.  When the oxen were brought in, the men were up and ready to go to yoking.  But the nigh wheeler in Joe Jenk’s team, a big brindle, muley ox, a regular pet steer, was missing.  I saw him myself, Joe saw him, and the night herder swore he came in with the rest.  Well, we looked high and low for that Mr. Ox, but he had vanished.  While the men were eating their breakfast, I got on my horse and the night herder and I scoured and circled that country for miles around, but no ox.  The country was so bare and level that a jack rabbit needed to carry a fly for shade.  I was worried, for we needed every ox and every moment of time.  I ordered Joe to tie his mate behind the trail wagon and pull out one ox shy.

“Well, fellows, that thing worried me powerful.  Half the teamsters, good, honest, truthful men as ever popped a whip, swore they saw that ox when they came in.  Well, it served a strong argument that a man can be positive and yet be mistaken.  We nooned ten miles from our night camp that day.  Jerry Wilkens happened to mention it at dinner that he believed his trail needed greasing.  ‘Why,’ said Jerry, ’you’d think that I was loaded, the way my team kept their chains taut.’  I noticed Joe get up from dinner before he had finished, as if an idea had struck him.  He went over and opened the sheet in Jerry’s trail wagon, and a smile spread over his countenance.  ‘Come here, fellows,’ was all he said.

“We ran over to the wagon and there”—­

The boys turned their backs with indistinct mutterings of disgust.

“You all don’t need to believe this if you don’t want to, but there was the missing ox, coiled up and sleeping like a bear in the wagon.  He even had Jerry’s roll of bedding for a pillow.  You see, the wagon sheet was open in front, and he had hopped up on the trail tongue and crept in there to steal a ride.  Joe climbed into the wagon, and gave him a few swift kicks in the short ribs, when he opened his eyes, yawned, got up, and jumped out.”

Bull was rolling a cigarette before starting, while Fox’s night horse was hard to bridle, which hindered them.  With this slight delay, Forrest turned his horse back and continued:  “That same ox on the next trip, one night when we had the wagons parked into a corral, got away from the herder, tip-toed over the men’s beds in the gate, stood on his hind legs long enough to eat four fifty-pound sacks of flour out of the rear end of a wagon, got down on his side, and wormed his way under the wagon back into the herd, without being detected or waking a man.”

As they rode away to relieve the first guard, McCann said, “Isn’t he a muzzle-loading daisy?  If I loved a liar I’d hug that man to death.”

The absence of our foreman made no difference.  We all knew our places on guard.  Experience told us there would be no trouble that night.  After Wyatt Roundtree and Moss Strayhorn had made down their bed and got into it, Wyatt remarked,—­

“Did you ever notice, old sidey, how hard this ground is?”

“Oh, yes,” said Moss, as he turned over, hunting for a soft spot, “it is hard, but we’ll forget all that when this trip ends.  Brother, dear, just think of those long slings with red cherries floating around in them that we’ll be drinking, and picture us smoking cigars in a blaze.  That thought alone ought to make a hard bed both soft and warm.  Then to think we’ll ride all the way home on the cars.”

McCann banked his fire, and the first guard, Wheat, Stallings, and Borrowstone, rode in from the herd, all singing an old chorus that had been composed, with little regard for music or sense, about a hotel where they had stopped the year before:—­

     “Sure it’s one cent for coffee and two cents for bread,
     Three for a steak and five for a bed,
     Sea breeze from the gutter wafts a salt water smell,
     To the festive cowboy in the Southwestern hotel.”