The Outlet

It was an hour after the usual time when we bedded down the cattle.  The wagon had overtaken us about sunset, and the cook’s fire piloted us into a camp fully two miles to the right of the trail.  A change of horses was awaiting us, and after a hasty supper Tupps detailed two young fellows to visit Ogalalla.  It required no urging; I outlined clearly what was expected of their mission, requesting them to return by the way of Flood’s wagon, and to receive any orders which my employer might see fit to send.  The horse-wrangler was pressed in to stand the guard of one of the absent lads on the second watch, and I agreed to take the other, which fell in the third.  The boys had not yet returned when our guard was called, but did so shortly afterward, one of them hunting me up on night-herd.

“Well,” said he, turning his horse and circling with me, “we caught onto everything that was adrift.  The Rebel and Sponsilier were both in town, in charge of two deputies.  Flood and your brother went in with us, and with the lads from the other outfits, including those across the river, there must have been twenty-five of Lovell’s men in town.  I noticed that Dave and The Rebel were still wearing their six-shooters, while among the boys the arrests were looked upon as quite a joke.  The two deputies had all kinds of money, and wouldn’t allow no one but themselves to spend a cent.  The biggest one of the two—­the one who gave you the cigar—­would say to my boss:  ’Sponsilier, you’re a trail foreman from Texas—­one of Don Lovell’s boss men—­but you’re under arrest; your cattle are in my possession this very minute.  You understand that, don’t you?  Very well, then; everybody come up and have a drink on the sheriff’s office.’  That was about the talk in every saloon and dance-hall visited.  But when we proposed starting back to camp, about midnight, the big deputy said to Flood:  ’I want you to tell Colonel Lovell that I hold a warrant for his arrest; urge him not to put me to the trouble of coming out after him.  If he had identified himself to me this afternoon, he could have slept on a goose-hair bed to-night instead of out there on the mesa, on the cold ground.  His reputation in this town would entitle him to three meals a day, even if he was under arrest.  Now, we’ll have one more, and tell the damned old rascal that I’ll expect him in the morning.’”

We rode out the watch together.  On returning to Flood’s camp, they had found Don Lovell awake.  The old man was pleased with the report, but sent me no special word except to exercise my own judgment.  The cattle were tired after their long tramp of the day before, the outfit were saddle weary, and the first rays of the rising sun flooded the mesa before men or animals offered to arise.  But the duties of another day commanded us anew, and with the cook calling us, we rose to meet them.  I was favorably impressed with Tupps as a segundo, and after breakfast suggested that he graze the cattle over to the North Platte, cross it, and make a permanent camp.  This was agreed to, half the men were excused for the day, and after designating, beyond the river, a clump of cottonwoods where the wagon would be found, seven of us turned and rode back for Ogalalla.  With picked mounts under us, we avoided the other cattle which could be seen grazing northward, and when fully halfway to town, there before us on the brink of the mesa loomed up the lead of a herd.  I soon recognized Jack Splann on the point, and taking a wide circle, dropped in behind him, the column stretching back a mile and coming up the bluffs, forty abreast like an army in loose marching order.  I was proud of those “Open A’s;” they were my first herd, and though in a hurry to reach town, I turned and rode back with them for fully a mile.

Splann was acting under orders from Flood, who had met him at the ford that morning.  If the cattle were in the possession of any deputy sheriff, they had failed to notify Jack, and the latter had already started for the North Platte of his own accord.  The “Drooping T” cattle were in the immediate rear under Forrest’s segundo, and Splann urged me to accompany him that forenoon, saying:  “From what the boys said this morning, Dave and Paul will not be given a hearing until two o’clock this afternoon.  I can graze beyond the North Fork by that time, and then we’ll all go back together.  Flood’s right behind here with the ‘Drooping T’s,’ and I think it’s his intention to go all the way to the river.  Drop back and see him.”

The boys who were with me never halted, but had ridden on towards town.  When the second herd began the ascent of the mesa, I left Splann and turned back, waiting on the brink for its arrival.  As it would take the lead cattle some time to reach me, I dismounted, resting in the shade of my horse.  But my rest was brief, for the clattering hoofs of a cavalcade of horsemen were approaching, and as I arose, Quince Forrest and Bob Quirk with a dozen or more men dashed up and halted.  As their herds were intended for the Crow and Fort Washakie agencies, they would naturally follow up the south side of the North Platte, and an hour or two of grazing would put them in camp.  The Buford cattle, as well as Flood’s herd, were due to cross this North Fork of the mother Platte within ten miles of Ogalalla, their respective routes thenceforth being north and northeast.  Forrest, like myself, was somewhat leary of entering the town, and my brother and the boys passed on shortly, leaving Quince behind.  We discussed every possible phase of what might happen in case we were recognized, which was almost certain if Tolleston or the Dodge buyers were encountered.  But an overweening hunger to get into Ogalalla was dominant in us, and under the excuse of settling for our supplies, after the herd passed, we remounted our horses, Flood joining us, and rode for the hamlet.

There was little external and no moral change in the town.  Several new saloons had opened, and in anticipation of the large drive that year, the Dew-Drop-In dance-hall had been enlarged, and employed three shifts of bartenders.  A stage had been added with the new addition, and a special importation of ladies had been brought out from Omaha for the season.  I use the term ladies advisedly, for in my presence one of the proprietors, with marked courtesy, said to an Eastern stranger, “Oh, no, you need no introduction.  My wife is the only woman in town; all the balance are ladies.”  Beyond a shave and a hair-cut, Forrest and I fought shy of public places.  But after the supplies were settled for, and some new clothing was secured, we chambered a few drinks and swaggered about with considerable ado.  My bill of supplies amounted to one hundred and twenty-six dollars, and when, without a word, I drew a draft for the amount, the proprietor of the outfitting store, as a pelon, made me a present of two fine silk handkerchiefs.

Forrest was treated likewise, and having invested ourselves in white shirts, with flaming red ties, we used the new handkerchiefs to otherwise decorate our persons.  We had both chosen the brightest colors, and with these knotted about our necks, dangling from pistol-pockets, or protruding from ruffled shirt fronts, our own mothers would scarcely have known us.  Jim Flood, whom we met casually on a back street, stopped, and after circling us once, said, “Now if you fellows just keep perfectly sober, your disguise will be complete.”

Meanwhile Don Lovell had reported at an early hour to the sheriff’s office.  The legal profession was represented in Ogalalla by several firms, criminal practice being their specialty; but fortunately Mike Sutton, an attorney of Dodge, had arrived in town the day before on a legal errand for another trail drover.  Sutton was a frontier advocate, alike popular with the Texas element and the gambling fraternity, having achieved laurels in his home town as a criminal lawyer.  Mike was born on the little green isle beyond the sea, and, gifted with the Celtic wit, was also in logic clear as the tones of a bell, while his insight into human motives was almost superhuman.  Lovell had had occasion in other years to rely on Sutton’s counsel, and now would listen to no refusal of his services.  As it turned out, the lawyer’s mission in Ogalalla was so closely in sympathy with Lovell’s trouble that they naturally strengthened each other.  The highest tribunal of justice in Ogalalla was the county court, the judge of which also ran the stock-yards during the shipping season, and was banker for two monte games at the Lone Star saloon.  He enjoyed the reputation of being an honest, fearless jurist, and supported by a growing civic pride, his decisions gave satisfaction.  A sense of crude equity governed his rulings, and as one of the citizens remarked, “Whatever the judge said, went.”  It should be remembered that this was in ’84, but had a similar trouble occurred five years earlier, it is likely that Judge Colt would have figured in the preliminaries, and the coroner might have been called on to impanel a jury.  But the rudiments of civilization were sweeping westward, and Ogalalla was nerved to the importance of the occasion; for that very afternoon a hearing was to be given for the possession of two herds of cattle, valued at over a quarter-million dollars.

The representatives of The Western Supply Company were quartered in the largest hotel in town, but seldom appeared on the streets.  They had employed a firm of local attorneys, consisting of an old and a young man, both of whom evidently believed in the justice of their client’s cause.  All the cattle-hands in Lovell’s employ were anxious to get a glimpse of Tolleston, many of them patronizing the bar and table of the same hostelry, but their efforts were futile until the hour arrived for the hearing.  They probably have a new court-house in Ogalalla now, but at the date of this chronicle the building which served as a temple of justice was poorly proportioned, its height being entirely out of relation to its width.  It was a two-story affair, the lower floor being used for county offices, the upper one as the court-room.  A long stairway ran up the outside of the building, landing on a gallery in front, from which the sheriff announced the sitting of the honorable court of Keith County.  At home in Texas, lawsuits were so rare that though I was a grown man, the novelty of this one absorbed me.  Quite a large crowd had gathered in advance of the hour, and while awaiting the arrival of Judge Mulqueen, a contingent of fifteen men from the two herds in question rode up and halted in front of the court-house.  Forrest and I were lying low, not caring to be seen, when the three plaintiffs, the two local attorneys, and Tolleston put in an appearance.  The cavalcade had not yet dismounted, and when Dorg Seay caught sight of Tolleston, he stood up in his stirrups and sang out, “Hello there, Archibald! my old college chum, how goes it?”

Judge Mulqueen had evidently dressed for the occasion, for with the exception of the plaintiffs, he was the only man in the court-room who wore a coat.  The afternoon was a sultry one; in that first bottom of the Platte there was scarcely a breath of air, and collars wilted limp as rags.  Neither map nor chart graced the unplastered walls, the unpainted furniture of the room was sadly in need of repair, while a musty odor permeated the room.  Outside the railing the seating capacity of the court-room was rather small, rough, bare planks serving for seats, but the spectators gladly stood along the sides and rear, eager to catch every word, as they silently mopped the sweat which oozed alike from citizen and cattleman.  Forrest and I were concealed in the rear, which was packed with Lovell’s boys, when the judge walked in and court opened for the hearing.  Judge Mulqueen requested counsel on either side to be as brief and direct as possible, both in their pleadings and testimony, adding:  “If they reach the stock-yards in time, I may have to load out a train of feeders this evening.  We’ll bed the cars, anyhow.”  Turning to the sheriff, he continued:  “Frank, if you happen outside, keep an eye up the river; those Lincoln feeders made a deal yesterday for five hundred three-year-olds.—­Read your complaint.”

The legal document was read with great fervor and energy by the younger of the two local lawyers.  In the main it reviewed the situation correctly, every point, however, being made subservient to their object,—­the possession of the cattle.  The plaintiffs contended that they were the innocent holders of the original contract between the government and The Western Supply Company, properly assigned; that they had purchased these two herds in question, had paid earnest-money to the amount of sixty-five thousand dollars on the same, and concluded by petitioning the court for possession.  Sutton arose, counseled a moment with Lovell, and borrowing a chew of tobacco from Sponsilier, leisurely addressed the court.

“I shall not trouble your honor by reading our reply in full, but briefly state its contents,” said he, in substance.  “We admit that the herds in question, which have been correctly described by road brands and ages, are the property of my client.  We further admit that the two trail foremen here under arrest as accessories were acting under the orders of their employer, who assumes all responsibility for their acts, and in our pleadings we ask this honorable court to discharge them from further detention.  The earnest-money, said to have been paid on these herds, is correct to a cent, and we admit having the amount in our possession.  But,” and the little advocate’s voice rose, rich in its Irish brogue, “we deny any assignment of the original contract.  The Western Supply Company is a corporation name, a shield and fence of thieves.  The plaintiffs here can claim no assignment, because they themselves constitute the company.  It has been decided that a man cannot steal his own money, neither can he assign from himself to himself.  We shall prove by a credible witness that The Western Supply Company is but another name for John C. Fields, Oliver Radcliff, and the portly gentleman who was known a year ago as ‘Honest’ John Griscom, one of his many aliases.  If to these names you add a few moneyed confederates, you have The Western Supply Company, one and the same.  We shall also prove that for years past these same gentlemen have belonged to a ring, all brokers in government contracts, and frequently finding it necessary to use assumed names, generally that of a corporation.”

Scanning the document in his hand, Sutton continued:  “Our motive in selling and accepting money on these herds in Dodge demands a word of explanation.  The original contract calls for five million pounds of beef on foot to be delivered at Fort Buford.  My client is a sub-contractor under that award.  There are times, your honor, when it becomes necessary to resort to questionable means to attain an end.  This is one of them.  Within a week after my client had given bonds for the fulfillment of his contract, he made the discovery that he was dealing with a double-faced set of scoundrels.  From that day until the present moment, secret-service men have shadowed every action of the plaintiffs.  My client has anticipated their every move.  When beeves broke in price from five to seven dollars a head, Honest John, here, made his boasts in Washington City over a champagne supper that he and his associates would clear one hundred thousand dollars on their Buford contract.  Let us reason together how this could be done.  The Western Supply Company refused, even when offered a bonus, to assign their contract to my client.  But they were perfectly willing to transfer it, from themselves as a corporation, to themselves as individuals, even though they had previously given Don Lovell a subcontract for the delivery of the beees.  The original award was made seven months ago, and the depreciation in cattle since is the secret of why the frog eat the cabbage.  My client is under the necessity of tendering his cattle on the day of delivery, and proposes to hold this earnest-money to indemnify himself in case of an adverse decision at Fort Buford.  It is the only thing he can do, as The Western Supply Company is execution proof, its assets consisting of some stud-horse office furniture and a corporate seal.  On the other hand, Don Lovell is rated at half a million, mostly in pasture lands; is a citizen of Medina County, Texas, and if these gentlemen have any grievance, let them go there and sue him.  A judgment against my client is good.  Now, your honor, you have our side of the question.  To be brief, shall these old Wisinsteins come out here from Washington City and dispossess any man of his property?  There is but one answer—­not in the Republic of Keith.”

All three of the plaintiffs took the stand, their testimony supporting the complaint, Lovell’s attorney refusing even to cross-examine any one of them.  When they rested their case Sutton arose, and scanning the audience for some time, inquired, “Is Jim Reed there?” In response, a tall, one-armed man worked his way from the outer gallery through the crowd and advanced to the rail.  I knew Reed by sight only, my middle brother having made several trips with his trail cattle, but he was known to every one by reputation.  He had lost an arm in the Confederate service, and was recognized by the gambling fraternity as the gamest man among all the trail drovers, while every cowman from the Rio Grande to the Yellowstone knew him as a poker-player.  Reed was asked to take the stand, and when questioned if he knew either of the plaintiffs, said: 

“Yes, I know that fat gentleman, and I’m powerful glad to meet up with him again,” replied the witness, designating Honest John.  “That man is so crooked that he can’t sleep in a bed, and it’s one of the wonders of this country that he hasn’t stretched hemp before this.  I made his acquaintance as manager of The Federal Supply Company, and delivered three thousand cows to him at the Washita Indian Agency last fall.  In the final settlement, he drew on three different banks, and one draft of twenty-eight thousand dollars came back, indorsed, DRAWEE unknown.  I had other herds on the trail to look after, and it was a month before I found out that the check was bogus, by which time Honest John had sailed for Europe.  There was nothing could be done but put my claim into a judgment and lay for him.  But I’ve got a grapevine twist on him now, for no sooner did he buy a herd here last week than Mr. Sutton transferred the judgment to this jurisdiction, and his cattle will be attached this afternoon.  I’ve been on his trail for nearly a year, but he’ll come to me now, and before he can move his beeves out of this county, the last cent must come, with interest, attorney’s fees, detective bills, and remuneration for my own time and trouble.  That’s the reason that I’m so glad to meet him.  Judge, I’ve gone to the trouble and expense to get his record for the last ten years.  He’s so snaky he sheds his name yearly, shifting for a nickname from Honest John to The Quaker.  In ’80 he and his associates did business under the name of The Army & Sutler Supply Company, and I know of two judgments that can be bought very reasonable against that corporation.  His record would convince any one that he despises to make an honest dollar.”

The older of the two attorneys for the plaintiffs asked a few questions, but the replies were so unsatisfactory to their side, that they soon passed the witness.  During the cross-questioning, however, the sheriff had approached the judge and whispered something to his honor.  As there were no further witnesses to be examined, the local attorneys insisted on arguing the case, but Judge Mulqueen frowned them down, saying: 

“This court sees no occasion for any argument in the present case.  You might spout until you were black in the face and it wouldn’t change my opinion any; besides I’ve got twenty cars to send and a train of cattle to load out this evening.  This court refuses to interfere with the herds in question, at present the property of and in possession of Don Lovell, who, together with his men, are discharged from custody.  If you’re in town to-night, Mr. Reed, drop into the Lone Star.  Couple of nice monte games running there; hundred-dollar limit, and if you feel lucky, there’s a nice bank roll behind them.  Adjourn court, Mr. Sheriff.”