The Log of a Cowboy

OUR LAST CAMP-FIRE

By early dawn the next morning we were astir at our last camp on Sweet Grass, and before the horses were brought in, we had put on the wagon box and reloaded our effects.  The rainy season having ended in the mountain regions, the stage of water in the Yellowstone would present no difficulties in fording, and our foreman was anxious to make a long drive that day so as to make up for our enforced lay-over.  We had breakfasted by the time the horses were corralled, and when we overtook the grazing herd, the cattle were within a mile of the river.  Flood had looked over the ford the day before, and took one point of the herd as we went down into the crossing.  The water was quite chilly to the cattle, though the horses in the lead paid little attention to it, the water in no place being over three feet deep.  A number of spectators had come up from Frenchman’s to watch the herd ford, the crossing being about half a mile above the village.  No one made any inquiry for Priest, though ample opportunity was given them to see that the gray-haired man was missing.  After the herd had crossed, a number of us lent a rope in assisting the wagon over, and when we reached the farther bank, we waved our hats to the group on the south side in farewell to them and to Frenchman’s Ford.

The trail on leaving the river led up Many Berries, one of the tributaries of the Yellowstone putting in from the north side; and we paralleled it mile after mile.  It was with difficulty that riders could be kept on the right hand side of the herd, for along it grew endless quantities of a species of upland huckleberry, and, breaking off branches, we feasted as we rode along.  The grade up this creek was quite pronounced, for before night the channel of the creek had narrowed to several yards in width.  On the second day out the wild fruit disappeared early in the morning, and after a continued gradual climb, we made camp that night on the summit of the divide within plain sight of the Musselshell River.  From this divide there was a splendid view of the surrounding country as far as eye could see.  To our right, as we neared the summit, we could see in that rarefied atmosphere the buttes, like sentinels on duty, as they dotted the immense tableland between the Yellowstone and the mother Missouri, while on our left lay a thousand hills, untenanted save by the deer, elk, and a remnant of buffalo.  Another half day’s drive brought us to the shoals on the Musselshell, about twelve miles above the entrance of Flatwillow Creek.  It was one of the easiest crossings we had encountered in many a day, considering the size of the river and the flow of water.  Long before the advent of the white man, these shoals had been in use for generations by the immense herds of buffalo and elk migrating back and forth between their summer ranges and winter pasturage, as the converging game trails on either side indicated.  It was also an old Indian ford.  After crossing and resuming our afternoon drive, the cattle trail ran within a mile of the river, and had it not been for the herd of northern wintered cattle, and possibly others, which had passed along a month or more in advance of us, it would have been hard to determine which were cattle and which were game trails, the country being literally cut up with these pathways.

When within a few miles of the Flatwillow, the trail bore off to the northwest, and we camped that night some distance below the junction of the former creek with the Big Box Elder.  Before our watch had been on guard twenty minutes that night, we heard some one whistling in the distance; and as whoever it was refused to come any nearer the herd, a thought struck me, and I rode out into the darkness and hailed him.

“Is that you, Tom?” came the question to my challenge, and the next minute I was wringing the hand of my old bunkie, The Rebel.  I assured him that the coast was clear, and that no inquiry had been even made for him the following morning, when crossing the Yellowstone, by any of the inhabitants of Frenchman’s Ford.  He returned with me to the bed ground, and meeting Honeyman as he circled around, was almost unhorsed by the latter’s warmth of reception, and Officer’s delight on meeting my bunkie was none the less demonstrative.  For nearly half an hour he rode around with one or the other of us, and as we knew he had had little if any sleep for the last three nights, all of us begged him to go on into camp and go to sleep.  But the old rascal loafed around with us on guard, seemingly delighted with our company and reluctant to leave.  Finally Honeyman and I prevailed on him to go to the wagon, but before leaving us he said, “Why, I’ve been in sight of the herd for the last day and night, but I’m getting a little tired of lying out with the dry cattle these cool nights, and living on huckleberries and grouse, so I thought I’d just ride in and get a fresh horse and a square meal once more.  But if Flood says stay, you’ll see me at my old place on the point to-morrow.”

Had the owner of the herd suddenly appeared in camp, he could not have received such an ovation as was extended Priest the next morning when his presence became known.  From the cook to the foreman, they gathered around our bed, where The Rebel sat up in the blankets and held an informal reception; and two hours afterward he was riding on the right point of the herd as if nothing had happened.  We had a fair trail up Big Box Elder, and for the following few days, or until the source of that creek was reached, met nothing to check our course.  Our foreman had been riding in advance of the herd, and after returning to us at noon one day, reported that the trail turned a due northward course towards the Missouri, and all herds had seemingly taken it.  As we had to touch at Fort Benton, which was almost due westward, he had concluded to quit the trail and try to intercept the military road running from Fort Maginnis to Benton.  Maginnis lay to the south of us, and our foreman hoped to strike the military road at an angle on as near a westward course as possible.

Accordingly after dinner he set out to look out the country, and took me with him.  We bore off toward the Missouri, and within half an hour’s ride after leaving the trail we saw some loose horses about three miles distant, down in a little valley through which flowed a creek towards the Musselshell.  We reined in and watched the horses several minutes, when we both agreed from their movements that they were hobbled.  We scouted out some five or six miles, finding the country somewhat rough, but passable for a herd and wagon.  Flood was anxious to investigate those hobbled horses, for it bespoke the camp of some one in the immediate vicinity.  On our return, the horses were still in view, and with no little difficulty, we descended from the mesa into the valley and reached them.  To our agreeable surprise, one of them was wearing a bell, while nearly half of them were hobbled, there being twelve head, the greater portion of which looked like pack horses.  Supposing the camp, if there was one, must be up in the hills, we followed a bridle path up stream in search of it, and soon came upon four men, placer mining on the banks of the creek.

When we made our errand known, one of these placer miners, an elderly man who seemed familiar with the country, expressed some doubts about our leaving the trail, though he said there was a bridle path with which he was acquainted across to the military road.  Flood at once offered to pay him well if he would pilot us across to the road, or near enough so that we could find our way.  The old placerman hesitated, and after consulting among his partners, asked how we were fixed for provision, explaining that they wished to remain a month or so longer, and that game had been scared away from the immediate vicinity, until it had become hard to secure meat.  But he found Flood ready in that quarter, for he immediately offered to kill a beef and load down any two pack horses they had, if he would consent to pilot us over to within striking distance of the Fort Benton road.  The offer was immediately accepted, and I was dispatched to drive in their horses.  Two of the placer miners accompanied us back to the trail, both riding good saddle horses and leading two others under pack saddles.  We overtook the herd within a mile of the point where the trail was to be abandoned, and after sending the wagon ahead, our foreman asked our guests to pick out any cow or steer in the herd.  When they declined, he cut out a fat stray cow which had come into the herd down on the North Platte, had her driven in after the wagon, killed and quartered.  When we had laid the quarters on convenient rocks to cool and harden during the night, our future pilot timidly inquired what we proposed to do with the hide, and on being informed that he was welcome to it, seemed delighted, remarking, as I helped him to stake it out where it would dry, that “rawhide was mighty handy repairing pack saddles.”

Our visitors interested us, for it is probable that not a man in our outfit had ever seen a miner before, though we had read of the life and were deeply interested in everything they did or said.  They were very plain men and of simple manners, but we had great difficulty in getting them to talk.  After supper, while idling away a couple of hours around our camp-fire, the outfit told stories, in the hope that our guests would become reminiscent and give us some insight into their experiences, Bob Blades leading off.

“I was in a cow town once up on the head of the Chisholm trail at a time when a church fair was being pulled off.  There were lots of old long-horn cowmen living in the town, who owned cattle in that Cherokee Strip that Officer is always talking about.  Well, there’s lots of folks up there that think a nigger is as good as anybody else, and when you find such people set in their ways, it’s best not to argue matters with them, but lay low and let on you think that way too.  That’s the way those old Texas cowmen acted about it.

“Well, at this church fair there was to be voted a prize of a nice baby wagon, which had been donated by some merchant, to the prettiest baby under a year old.  Colonel Bob Zellers was in town at the time, stopping at a hotel where the darky cook was a man who had once worked for him on the trail.  ‘Frog,’ the darky, had married when he quit the colonel’s service, and at the time of this fair there was a pickaninny in his family about a year old, and nearly the color of a new saddle.  A few of these old cowmen got funny and thought it would be a good joke to have Frog enter his baby at the fair, and Colonel Bob being the leader in the movement, he had no trouble convincing the darky that that baby wagon was his, if he would only enter his youngster.  Frog thought the world of the old Colonel, and the latter assured him that he would vote for his baby while he had a dollar or a cow left.  The result was, Frog gave his enthusiastic consent, and the Colonel agreed to enter the pickaninny in the contest.

“Well, the Colonel attended to the entering of the baby’s name, and then on the dead quiet went around and rustled up every cowman and puncher in town, and had them promise to be on hand, to vote for the prettiest baby at ten cents a throw.  The fair was being held in the largest hall in town, and at the appointed hour we were all on hand, as well as Frog and his wife and baby.  There were about a dozen entries, and only one blackbird in the covey.  The list of contestants was read by the minister, and as each name was announced, there was a vigorous clapping of hands all over the house by the friends of each baby.  But when the name of Miss Precilla June Jones was announced, the Texas contingent made their presence known by such a deafening outburst of applause that old Frog grinned from ear to ear—­he saw himself right then pushing that baby wagon.

“Well, on the first heat we voted sparingly, and as the vote was read out about every quarter hour, Precilla June Jones on the first turn was fourth in the race.  On the second report, our favorite had moved up to third place, after which the weaker ones were deserted, and all the voting blood was centered on the two white leaders, with our blackbird a close third.  We were behaving ourselves nicely, and our money was welcome if we weren’t.  When the third vote was announced, Frog’s pickaninny was second in the race, with her nose lapped on the flank of the leader.  Then those who thought a darky was as good as any one else got on the prod in a mild form, and you could hear them voicing their opinions all over the hall.  We heard it all, but sat as nice as pie and never said a word.

“When the final vote was called for, we knew it was the home stretch, and every rascal of us got his weasel skin out and sweetened the voting on Miss Precilla June Jones.  Some of those old long-horns didn’t think any more of a twenty-dollar gold piece than I do of a white chip, especially when there was a chance to give those good people a dose of their own medicine.  I don’t know how many votes we cast on the last whirl, but we swamped all opposition, and our favorite cantered under the wire an easy winner.  Then you should have heard the kicking, but we kept still and inwardly chuckled.  The minister announced the winner, and some of those good people didn’t have any better manners than to hiss and cut up ugly.  We stayed until Frog got the new baby wagon in his clutches, when we dropped out casually and met at the Ranch saloon, where Colonel Zellers had taken possession behind the bar and was dispensing hospitality in proper celebration of his victory.”

Much to our disappointment, our guests remained silent and showed no disposition to talk, except to answer civil questions which Flood asked regarding the trail crossing on the Missouri, and what that river was like in the vicinity of old Fort Benton.  When the questions had been answered, they again relapsed into silence.  The fire was replenished, and after the conversation had touched on several subjects, Joe Stallings took his turn with a yarn.

“When my folks first came to Texas,” said Joe, “they settled in Ellis County, near Waxahachie.  My father was one of the pioneers in that county at a time when his nearest neighbor lived ten miles from his front gate.  But after the war, when the country had settled up, these old pioneers naturally hung together and visited and chummed with one another in preference to the new settlers.  One spring when I was about fifteen years old, one of those old pioneer neighbors of ours died, and my father decided that he would go to the funeral or burst a hame string.  If any of you know anything about that black-waxy, hog-wallow land in Ellis County, you know that when it gets muddy in the spring a wagon wheel will fill solid with waxy mud.  So at the time of this funeral it was impossible to go on the road with any kind of a vehicle, and my father had to go on horseback.  He was an old man at the time and didn’t like the idea, but it was either go on horseback or stay at home, and go he would.

“They raise good horses in Ellis County, and my father had raised some of the best of them—­brought the stock from Tennessee.  He liked good blood in a horse, and was always opposed to racing, but he raised some boys who weren’t.  I had a number of brothers older than myself, and they took a special pride in trying every colt we raised, to see what he amounted to in speed.  Of course this had to be done away from home; but that was easy, for these older brothers thought nothing of riding twenty miles to a tournament, barbecue, or round-up, and when away from home they always tried their horses with the best in the country.  At the time of this funeral, we had a crackerjack five year old chestnut sorrel gelding that could show his heels to any horse in the country.  He was a peach,—­you could turn him on a saddle blanket and jump him fifteen feet, and that cow never lived that he couldn’t cut.

“So the day of the funeral my father was in a quandary as to which horse to ride, but when he appealed to his boys, they recommended the best on the ranch, which was the chestnut gelding.  My old man had some doubts as to his ability to ride the horse, for he hadn’t been on a horse’s back for years; but my brothers assured him that the chestnut was as obedient as a kitten, and that before he had been on the road an hour the mud would take all the frisk and frolic out of him.  There was nearly fifteen miles to go, and they assured him that he would never get there if he rode any other horse.  Well, at last he consented to ride the gelding, and the horse was made ready, properly groomed, his tail tied up, and saddled and led up to the block.  It took every member of the family to get my father rigged to start, but at last he announced himself as ready.  Two of my brothers held the horse until he found the off stirrup, and then they turned him loose.  The chestnut danced off a few rods, and settled down into a steady clip that was good for five or six miles an hour.

“My father reached the house in good time for the funeral services, but when the procession started for the burial ground, the horse was somewhat restless and impatient from the cold.  There was quite a string of wagons and other vehicles from the immediate neighborhood which had braved the mud, and the line was nearly half a mile in length between the house and the graveyard.  There were also possibly a hundred men on horseback bringing up the rear of the procession; and the chestnut, not understanding the solemnity of the occasion, was right on his mettle.  Surrounded as he was by other horses, he kept his weather eye open for a race, for in coming home from dances and picnics with my brothers, he had often been tried in short dashes of half a mile or so.  In order to get him out of the crowd of horses, my father dropped back with another pioneer to the extreme rear of the funeral line.

“When the procession was nearing the cemetery, a number of horsemen, who were late, galloped up in the rear.  The chestnut, supposing a race was on, took the bit in his teeth and tore down past the procession as though it was a free-for-all Texas sweepstakes, the old man’s white beard whipping the breeze in his endeavor to hold in the horse.  Nor did he check him until the head of the procession had been passed.  When my father returned home that night, there was a family round-up, for he was smoking under the collar.  Of course, my brothers denied having ever run the horse, and my mother took their part; but the old gent knew a thing or two about horses, and shortly afterwards he got even with his boys by selling the chestnut, which broke their hearts properly.”

The elder of the two placer miners, a long-whiskered, pock-marked man, arose, and after walking out from the fire some distance returned and called our attention to signs in the sky, which he assured us were a sure indication of a change in the weather.  But we were more anxious that he should talk about something else, for we were in the habit of taking the weather just as it came.  When neither one showed any disposition to talk, Flood said to them,—­

“It’s bedtime with us, and one of you can sleep with me, while I ’ve fixed up an extra bed for the other.  I generally get out about daybreak, but if that’s too early for you, don’t let my getting up disturb you.  And you fourth guard men, let the cattle off the bed ground on a due westerly course and point them up the divide.  Now get to bed, everybody, for we want to make a big drive tomorrow.”