REED ANTHONY, COWMAN

An Autobiography

BY

ANDY ADAMS

1907







[Illustration: THE COWMAN]




TO

CAPTAIN JOHN T. LYTLE

SECRETARY OF

THE TEXAS CATTLE RAISERS' ASSOCIATION

FORT WORTH, TEXAS




CONTENTS


I. IN RETROSPECT
II. MY APPRENTICESHIP
III. A SECOND TRIP TO PORT SUMNER
IV. A FATAL TRIP
V. SUMMER OF '68
VI. SOWING WILD OATS
VII. "THE ANGEL"
VIII. THE "LAZY L"
IX. THE SCHOOL OF EXPERIENCE
X. THE PANIC OF '73
XI. A PROSPEROUS YEAR
XII. CLEAR FORK AND SHENANDOAH
XIII. THE CENTENNIAL YEAR
XIV. ESTABLISHING A NEW RANCH
XV. HARVEST HOME
XVI. AN ACTIVE SUMMER
XVII. FORESHADOWS
XVIII. THE BEGINNING OF THE BOOM
XIX. THE CHEYENNE AND ARAPAHOE CATTLE COMPANY
XX. HOLDING THE FORT
XXI. THE FRUITS OF CONSPIRACY
XXII. IN CONCLUSION




CHAPTER I

IN RETROSPECT


I can truthfully say that my entire life has been spent with cattle.
Even during my four years' service in the Confederate army, the
greater portion was spent with the commissary department, in charge of
its beef supplies. I was wounded early in the second year of the war
and disabled as a soldier, but rather than remain at home I accepted
a menial position under a quartermaster. Those were strenuous times.
During Lee's invasion of Pennsylvania we followed in the wake of the
army with over a thousand cattle, and after Gettysburg we led the
retreat with double that number. Near the close of the war we
frequently had no cattle to hold, and I became little more than a
camp-follower.

I was born in the Shenandoah Valley, northern Virginia, May 3, 1840.
My father was a thrifty planter and stockman, owned a few slaves, and
as early as I can remember fed cattle every winter for the eastern
markets. Grandfather Anthony, who died before I was born, was a
Scotchman who had emigrated to the Old Dominion at an early day,
and acquired several large tracts of land on an affluent of the
Shenandoah. On my paternal side I never knew any of my ancestors, but
have good cause to believe they were adventurers. My mother's maiden
name was Reed; she was of a gentle family, who were able to trace
their forbears beyond the colonial days, even to the gentry of
England. Generations of good birth were reflected in my mother;
and across a rough and eventful life I can distinctly remember the
refinement of her manners, her courtesy to guests, her kindness to
child and slave.

My boyhood days were happy ones. I attended a subscription school
several miles from home, riding back and forth on a pony. The studies
were elementary, and though I never distinguished myself in my
classes, I was always ready to race my pony, and never refused to play
truant when the swimming was good. Evidently my father never intended
any of his boys for a professional career, though it was an earnest
hope of my mother that all of us should receive a college education.
My elder brother and I early developed business instincts, buying
calves and accompanying our father on his trading expeditions. Once
during a vacation, when we were about twelve and ten years old, both
of us crossed the mountains with him into what is now West Virginia,
where he bought about two hundred young steers and drove them back to
our home in the valley. I must have been blessed with an unfailing
memory; over fifty years have passed since that, my first trip from
home, yet I remember it vividly--can recall conversations between my
father and the sellers as they haggled over the cattle. I remember the
money, gold and silver, with which to pay for the steers, was carried
by my father in ordinary saddle-bags thrown across his saddle. As
occasion demanded, frequently the funds were carried by a negro man of
ours, and at night, when among acquaintances, the heavy saddle-bags
were thrown into a corner, every one aware of their contents.

But the great event of my boyhood was a trip to Baltimore. There was
no railroad at the time, and as that was our market for fat cattle,
it was necessary to drive the entire way. My father had made the trip
yearly since I could remember, the distance being nearly two hundred
miles, and generally carrying as many as one hundred and fifty big
beeves. They traveled slowly, pasturing or feeding grain on the way,
in order that the cattle should arrive at the market in salable
condition. One horse was allowed with the herd, and on another my
father rode, far in advance, to engage pasture or feed and shelter for
his men. When on the road a boy always led a gentle ox in the lead of
the beeves; negro men walked on either flank, and the horseman brought
up the rear. I used to envy the boy leading the ox, even though he was
a darky. The negro boys on our plantation always pleaded with "Mars"
John, my father, for the privilege; and when one of them had made the
trip to Baltimore as a toll boy he easily outranked us younger whites.
I must have made application for the position when I was about seven
years old, for it seemed an age before my request was granted. My
brother, only two years older than I, had made the trip twice, and
when I was twelve the great opportunity came. My father had nearly two
hundred cattle to go to market that year, and the start was made one
morning early in June. I can distinctly see my mother standing on the
veranda of our home as I led the herd by with a big red ox, trembling
with fear that at the final moment her permission might be withdrawn
and that I should have to remain behind. But she never interfered with
my father, who took great pains to teach his boys everything practical
in the cattle business.

It took us twenty days to reach Baltimore. We always started early in
the morning, allowing the beeves to graze and rest along the road, and
securing good pastures for them at night. Several times it rained,
making the road soft, but I stripped off my shoes and took it
barefooted through the mud. The lead ox was a fine, big fellow, each
horn tipped with a brass knob, and he and I set the pace, which was
scarcely that of a snail. The days were long, I grew desperately
hungry between meals, and the novelty of leading that ox soon lost its
romance. But I was determined not to show that I was tired or hungry,
and frequently, when my father was with us and offered to take me up
behind him on his horse, I spurned his offer and trudged on till
the end of the day. The mere driving of the beeves would have been
monotonous, but the constant change of scene kept us in good spirits,
and our darkies always crooned old songs when the road passed through
woodlands. After the beeves were marketed we spent a day in the city,
and my father took my brother and me to the theatre. Although the
world was unfolding rather rapidly for a country boy of twelve, it
was with difficulty that I was made to understand that what we had
witnessed on the stage was but mimicry.

The third day after reaching the city we started on our return. The
proceeds from the sale of the cattle were sent home by boat. With only
two horses, each of which carried double, and walking turn about, we
reached home in seven days, settling all bills on the way. That year
was a type of others until I was eighteen, at which age I could guess
within twenty pounds of the weight of any beef on foot, and when I
bought calves and yearling steers I knew just what kind of cattle they
would make at maturity. In the mean time, one summer my father had
gone west as far as the State of Missouri, traveling by boat to
Jefferson City, and thence inland on horseback. Several of our
neighbors had accompanied him, all of them buying land, my father
securing four sections. I had younger brothers growing up, and the
year my oldest brother attained his majority my father outfitted him
with teams, wagons, and two trusty negro men, and we started for the
nearest point on the Ohio River, our destination being the new lands
in the West. We embarked on the first boat, drifting down the Ohio,
and up the other rivers, reaching the Ultima Thule of our hopes within
a month. The land was new; I liked it; we lived on venison and wild
turkeys, and when once we had built a log house and opened a few
fields, we were at peace with the earth.

But this happy existence was of short duration. Rumors of war reached
us in our western elysium, and I turned my face homeward, as did many
another son of Virginia. My brother was sensible enough to remain
behind on the new farm; but with nothing to restrain me I soon found
myself in St. Louis. There I met kindred spirits, eager for the coming
fray, and before attaining my majority I was bearing arms and wearing
the gray of the Confederacy. My regiment saw very little service
during the first year of the war, as it was stationed in the western
division, but early in 1862 it was engaged in numerous actions.

I shall never forget my first glimpse of the Texas cavalry. We had
moved out from Corinth, under cover of darkness, to attack Grant at
Pittsburg Landing. When day broke, orders were given to open out and
allow the cavalry to pass ahead and reconnoitre our front. I had
always felt proud of Virginian horsemanship, but those Texans were in
a class by themselves. Centaur-like they sat their horses, and for our
amusement, while passing at full gallop, swung from their saddles and
picked up hats and handkerchiefs. There was something about the Texans
that fascinated me, and that Sunday morning I resolved, if spared, to
make Texas my future home. I have good cause to remember the battle of
Shiloh, for during the second day I was twice wounded, yet saved from
falling into the enemy's hands.

My recovery was due to youth and a splendid constitution. Within six
weeks I was invalided home, and inside a few months I was assigned to
the commissary department with the army in Virginia. It was while in
the latter service that I made the acquaintance of many Texans, from
whom I learned a great deal about the resources of their State,--its
immense herds of cattle, the cheapness of its lands, and its perpetual
summer. During the last year of the war, on account of their ability
to handle cattle, a number of Texans were detailed to care for the
army's beef supply. From these men I received much information and a
pressing invitation to accompany them home, and after the parole at
Appomattox I took their address, promising to join them in the near
future. On my return to the old homestead I found the place desolate,
with burnt barns and fields laid waste. The Shenandoah Valley had
experienced war in its dread reality, for on every hand were the
charred remains of once splendid homes. I had little hope that the
country would ever recover, but my father, stout-hearted as ever, had
already begun anew, and after helping him that summer and fall I again
drifted west to my brother's farm.

The war had developed a restless, vagabond spirit in me. I had little
heart to work, was unsettled as to my future, and, to add to my other
troubles, after reaching Missouri one of my wounds reopened. In the
mean time my brother had married, and had a fine farm opened up. He
offered me every encouragement and assistance to settle down to
the life of a farmer; but I was impatient, worthless, undergoing a
formative period of early manhood, even spurning the advice of father,
mother, and dearest friends. If to-day, across the lapse of years, the
question were asked what led me from the bondage of my discontent, it
would remain unanswered. Possibly it was the advantage of good birth;
surely the prayers of a mother had always followed me, and my feet
were finally led into the paths of industry. Since that day of
uncertainty, grandsons have sat upon my knee, clamoring for a story
about Indians, the war, or cattle trails. If I were to assign a motive
for thus leaving a tangible record of my life, it would be that my
posterity--not the present generation, absorbed in its greed of gain,
but a more distant and a saner one--should be enabled to glean a faint
idea of one of their forbears. A worthy and secondary motive is to
give an idea of the old West and to preserve from oblivion a rapidly
vanishing type of pioneers.

My personal appearance can be of little interest to coming
generations, but rather what I felt, saw, and accomplished. It was
always a matter of regret to me that I was such a poor shot with a
pistol. The only two exceptions worthy of mention were mere accidents.
In my boyhood's home, in Virginia, my father killed yearly a large
number of hogs for the household needs as well as for supplying our
slave families with bacon. The hogs usually ran in the woods, feeding
and thriving on the mast, but before killing time we always baited
them into the fields and finished their fattening with peas and corn.
It was customary to wait until the beginning of winter, or about the
second cold spell, to butcher, and at the time in question there were
about fifty large hogs to kill. It was a gala event with us boys, the
oldest of whom were allowed to shoot one or more with a rifle. The
hogs had been tolled into a small field for the killing, and towards
the close of the day a number of them, having been wounded and
requiring a second or third shot, became cross. These subsequent shots
were usually delivered from a six-shooter, and in order to have it at
hand in case of a miss I was intrusted with carrying the pistol. There
was one heavy-tusked five-year-old stag among the hogs that year who
refused to present his head for a target, and took refuge in a brier
thicket. He was left until the last, when we all sallied out to make
the final kill. There were two rifles, and had the chance come to my
father, I think he would have killed him easily; but the opportunity
came to a neighbor, who overshot, merely causing a slight wound. The
next instant the stag charged at me from the cover of the thickety
fence corner. Not having sense enough to take to the nearest
protection, I turned and ran like a scared wolf across the field, the
hog following me like a hound. My father risked a running shot, which
missed its target. The darkies were yelling, "Run, chile! Run, Mars'
Reed! Shoot! Shoot!" when it occurred to me that I had a pistol; and
pointing it backward as I ran, I blazed away, killing the big fellow
in his tracks.

The other occasion was years afterward, when I was a trail foreman at
Abilene, Kansas. My herd had arrived at that market in bad condition,
gaunted from almost constant stampedes at night, and I had gone into
camp some distance from town to quiet and recuperate them. That day I
was sending home about half my men, had taken them to the depot with
our wagon, and intended hauling back a load of supplies to my camp.
After seeing the boys off I hastened about my other business, and near
the middle of the afternoon started out of town. The distance to camp
was nearly twenty miles, and with a heavy load, principally salt, I
knew it would be after nightfall when I reached there. About five
miles out of town there was a long, gradual slope to climb, and I had
to give the through team their time in pulling to its summit. Near the
divide was a small box house, the only one on the road if I remember
rightly, and as I was nearing it, four or five dogs ran out and scared
my team. I managed to hold them in the road, but they refused to quiet
down, kicking, rearing, and plunging in spite of their load; and once
as they jerked me forward, I noticed there was a dog or two under the
wagon, nipping at their heels. There was a six-shooter lying on the
seat beside me, and reaching forward I fired it downward over the end
gate of the wagon. By the merest accident I hit a dog, who raised a
cry, and the last I saw of him he was spinning like a top and howling
like a wolf. I quieted the team as soon as possible, and as I looked
back, there was a man and woman pursuing me, the latter in the lead. I
had gumption enough to know that they were the owners of the dog, and
whipped up the horses in the hope of getting away from them. But the
grade and the load were against me, and the next thing I knew, a big,
bony woman, with fire in her eye, was reaching for me. The wagon wheel
warded her off, and I leaned out of her reach to the far side, yet she
kept abreast of me, constantly calling for her husband to hurry up.
I was pouring the whip into the horses, fearful lest she would climb
into the wagon, when the hub of the front wheel struck her on the
knee, knocking her down. I was then nearing the summit of the divide,
and on reaching it, I looked back and saw the big woman giving her
husband the pommeling that was intended for me. She was altogether too
near me yet, and I shook the lines over the horses, firing a few shots
to frighten them, and we tore down the farther slope like a fire
engine.

There are two events in my life that this chronicle will not fully
record. One of them is my courtship and marriage, and the other my
connection with a government contract with the Indian department.
Otherwise my life shall be as an open book, not only for my own
posterity, but that he who runs may read. It has been a matter of
observation with me that a plain man like myself scarcely ever refers
to his love affairs. At my time of life, now nearing my alloted span,
I have little sympathy with the great mass of fiction which exploits
the world-old passion. In no sense of the word am I a well-read man,
yet I am conscious of the fact that during my younger days the love
story interested me; but when compared with the real thing, the
transcript is usually a poor one. My wife and I have now walked up
and down the paths of life for over thirty-five years, and, if memory
serves me right, neither one of us has ever mentioned the idea of
getting a divorce. In youth we shared our crust together; children
soon blessed and brightened our humble home, and to-day, surrounded by
every comfort that riches can bestow, no achievement in life has given
me such great pleasure, I know no music so sweet, as the prattle of my
own grandchildren. Therefore that feature of my life is sacred, and
will not be disclosed in these pages.

I would omit entirely mention of the Indian contract, were it not that
old friends may read this, my biography, and wonder at the omission. I
have no apologies to offer for my connection with the transaction, as
its true nature was concealed from me in the beginning, and a scandal
would have resulted had I betrayed friends. Then again, before general
amnesty was proclaimed I was debarred from bidding on the many
rich government contracts for cattle because I had served in the
Confederate army. Smarting under this injustice at the time the Indian
contract was awarded, I question if I was thoroughly _reconstructed._
Before our disabilities were removed, we ex-Confederates could do all
the work, run all the risk, turn in all the cattle in filling the
outstanding contracts, but the middleman got the profits. The contract
in question was a blanket one, requiring about fifty thousand cows for
delivery at some twenty Indian agencies. The use of my name was all
that was required of me, as I was the only cowman in the entire ring.
My duty was to bid on the contract; the bonds would be furnished by my
partners, of which I must have had a dozen. The proposals called for
sealed bids, in the usual form, to be in the hands of the Department
of the Interior before noon on a certain day, marked so and so, and to
be opened at high noon a week later. The contract was a large one, the
competition was ample. Several other Texas drovers besides myself had
submitted bids; but they stood no show--_I had been furnished the
figures of every competitor._ The ramifications of the ring of which
I was the mere figure-head can be readily imagined. I sublet the
contract to the next lowest bidder, who delivered the cattle, and we
got a rake-off of a clean hundred thousand dollars. Even then there
was little in the transaction for me, as it required too many people
to handle it, and none of them stood behind the door at the final
"divvy." In a single year I have since cleared twenty times what my
interest amounted to in that contract and have done honorably by
my fellowmen. That was my first, last, and only connection with a
transaction that would need deodorizing if one described the details.

But I have seen life, have been witness to its poetry and pathos, have
drunk from the cup of sorrow and rejoiced as a strong man to run a
race. I have danced all night where wealth and beauty mingled, and
again under the stars on a battlefield I have helped carry a stretcher
when the wails of the wounded on every hand were like the despairing
cries of lost souls. I have seen an old demented man walking the
streets of a city, picking up every scrap of paper and scanning it
carefully to see if a certain ship had arrived at port--a ship which
had been lost at sea over forty years before, and aboard of which were
his wife and children. I was once under the necessity of making
a payment of twenty-five thousand dollars in silver at an Indian
village. There were no means of transportation, and I was forced to
carry the specie in on eight pack mules. The distance was nearly two
hundred miles, and as we neared the encampment we were under the
necessity of crossing a shallow river. It was summer-time, and as we
halted the tired mules to loosen the lash ropes, in order to allow
them to drink, a number of Indian children of both sexes, who
were bathing in the river, gathered naked on either embankment in
bewilderment at such strange intruders. In the innocence of these
children of the wild there was no doubt inspiration for a poet; but
our mission was a commercial one, and we relashed the mules and
hurried into the village with the rent money.

I have never kept a diary. One might wonder that the human mind
could contain such a mass of incident and experiences as has been my
portion, yet I can remember the day and date of occurrences of fifty
years ago. The scoldings of my father, the kind words of an indulgent
mother, when not over five years of age, are vivid in my memory as I
write to-day. It may seem presumptuous, but I can give the year and
date of starting, arrival, and delivery of over one hundred herds of
cattle which I drove over the trail as a common hand, foreman,
or owner. Yet the warnings of years--the unsteady step, easily
embarrassed, love of home and dread of leaving it--bid me hasten these
memoirs. Even my old wounds act as a barometer in foretelling the
coming of storms, as well as the change of season, from both of which
I am comfortably sheltered. But as I look into the inquiring eyes of a
circle of grandchildren, all anxious to know my life story, it seems
to sweeten the task, and I am encouraged to go on with the work.




CHAPTER II

MY APPRENTICESHIP


During the winter of 1865-66 I corresponded with several of my old
comrades in Texas. Beyond a welcome which could not be questioned,
little encouragement was, with one exception, offered me among my old
friends. It was a period of uncertainty throughout the South, yet
a cheerful word reached me from an old soldier crony living some
distance west of Fort Worth on the Brazos River. I had great
confidence in my former comrade, and he held out a hope, assuring me
that if I would come, in case nothing else offered, we could take his
ox teams the next winter and bring in a cargo of buffalo robes. The
plains to the westward of Fort Griffin, he wrote, were swarming with
buffalo, and wages could be made in killing them for their hides. This
caught my fancy and I was impatient to start at once; but the healing
of my reopened wound was slow, and it was March before I started. My
brother gave me a good horse and saddle, twenty-five dollars in gold,
and I started through a country unknown to me personally. Southern
Missouri had been in sympathy with the Confederacy, and whatever I
needed while traveling through that section was mine for the asking.
I avoided the Indian Territory until I reached Fort Smith, where I
rested several days with an old comrade, who gave me instructions and
routed me across the reservation of the Choctaw Indians, and I reached
Paris, Texas, without mishap.

I remember the feeling that I experienced while being ferried across
Red River. That watercourse was the northern boundary of Texas, and
while crossing it I realized that I was leaving home and friends and
entering a country the very name of which to the outside world was a
synonym for crime and outlawry. Yet some of as good men as ever it was
my pleasure to know came from that State, and undaunted I held a true
course for my destination. I was disappointed on seeing Fort Worth, a
straggling village on the Trinity River, and, merely halting to feed
my mount, passed on. I had a splendid horse and averaged thirty to
forty miles a day when traveling, and early in April reached the home
of my friend in Paolo Pinto County. The primitive valley of the Brazos
was enchanting, and the hospitality of the Edwards ranch was typical
of my own Virginia. George Edwards, my crony, was a year my junior, a
native of the State, his parents having moved west from Mississippi
the year after Texas won her independence from Mexico. The elder
Edwards had moved to his present home some fifteen years previous,
carrying with him a stock of horses and cattle, which had increased
until in 1866 he was regarded as one of the substantial ranchmen in
the Brazos valley. The ranch house was a stanch one, built at a
time when defense was to be considered as well as comfort, and was
surrounded by fine cornfields. The only drawback I could see there was
that there was no market for anything, nor was there any money in the
country. The consumption of such a ranch made no impression on the
increase of its herds, which grew to maturity with no demand for the
surplus.

I soon became impatient to do something. George Edwards had likewise
lost four years in the army, and was as restless as myself. He knew
the country, but the only employment in sight for us was as teamsters
with outfits, freighting government supplies to Fort Griffin. I should
have jumped at the chance of driving oxen, for I was anxious to stay
in the country, and suggested to George that we ride up to Griffin.
But the family interposed, assuring us that there was no occasion for
engaging in such menial work, and we folded our arms obediently, or
rode the range under the pretense of looking after the cattle. I might
as well admit right here that my anxiety to get away from the Edwards
ranch was fostered by the presence of several sisters of my former
comrade. Miss Gertrude was only four years my junior, a very dangerous
age, and in spite of all resolutions to the contrary, I felt myself
constantly slipping. Nothing but my poverty and the hopelessness of it
kept me from falling desperately in love.

But a temporary relief came during the latter part of May. Reports
came down the river that a firm of drovers were putting up a herd of
cattle for delivery at Fort Sumner, New Mexico. Their headquarters
were at Belknap, a long day's ride above, on the Brazos; and
immediately, on receipt of the news, George and I saddled, and
started up the river. The elder Edwards was very anxious to sell his
beef-cattle and a surplus of cow-horses, and we were commissioned to
offer them to the drovers at prevailing prices. On arriving at Belknap
we met the pioneer drover of Texas, Oliver Loving, of the firm of
Loving & Goodnight, but were disappointed to learn that the offerings
in making up the herd were treble the drover's requirements; neither
was there any chance to sell horses. But an application for work met
with more favor. Mr. Loving warned us of the nature of the country,
the dangers to be encountered, all of which we waived, and were
accordingly employed at forty dollars a month in gold. The herd was to
start early in June. George Edwards returned home to report, but I was
immediately put to work, as the junior member of the firm was then out
receiving cattle. They had established a camp, and at the time of our
employment were gathering beef steers in Loving's brand and holding
the herd as it arrived, so that I was initiated into my duties at
once.

I was allowed to retain my horse, provided he did his share of the
work. A mule and three range horses were also allotted to me, and I
was cautioned about their care. There were a number of saddle mules in
the remuda, and Mr. Loving explained that the route was through a
dry country, and that experience had taught him that a mule could
withstand thirst longer than a horse. I was a new man in the country,
and absorbed every word and idea as a sponge does water. With the
exception of roping, I made a hand from the start. The outfit treated
me courteously, there was no concealment of my past occupation, and I
soon had the friendship of every man in the camp. It was some little
time before I met the junior partner, Charlie Goodnight, a strapping
young fellow of about thirty, who had served all through the war in
the frontier battalion of Texas Rangers. The Comanche Indians had been
a constant menace on the western frontier of the State, and during the
rebellion had allied themselves with the Federal side, and harassed
the settlements along the border. It required a regiment of mounted
men to patrol the frontier from Red River to the coast, as the
Comanches claimed the whole western half of the State as their hunting
grounds.

Early in June the herd began to assume its required numbers. George
Edwards returned, and we naturally became bunkies, sharing our
blankets and having the same guard on night-herd. The drovers
encouraged all the men employed to bring along their firearms, and
when we were ready to start the camp looked like an arsenal. I had a
six-shooter, and my bunkie brought me a needle-gun from the ranch, so
that I felt armed for any emergency. Each of the men had a rifle
of some make or other, while a few of them had as many as four
pistols,--two in their belts and two in saddle holsters. It looked to
me as if this was to be a military expedition, and I began to wonder
if I had not had enough war the past few years, but kept quiet. The
start was made June 10, 1866, from the Brazos River, in what is now
Young County, the herd numbering twenty-two hundred big beeves. A
chuck-wagon, heavily loaded with supplies and drawn by six yoke of
fine oxen, a remuda of eighty-five saddle horses and mules, together
with seventeen men, constituted the outfit. Fort Sumner lay to the
northwest, and I was mildly surprised when the herd bore off to the
southwest. This was explained by young Goodnight, who was in charge
of the herd, saying that the only route then open or known was on our
present course to the Pecos River, and thence up that stream to our
destination.

Indian sign was noticed a few days after starting. Goodnight and
Loving both read it as easily as if it had been print,--the abandoned
camps, the course of arrival and departure, the number of horses,
indicating who and what they were, war or hunting parties--everything
apparently simple and plain as an alphabet to these plainsmen. Around
the camp-fire at night the chronicle of the Comanche tribe for the
last thirty years was reviewed, and their overbearing and defiant
attitude towards the people of Texas was discussed, not for my
benefit, as it was common history. Then for the first time I learned
that the Comanches had once mounted ten thousand warriors, had
frequently raided the country to the coast, carrying off horses
and white children, even dictating their own terms of peace to the
republic of Texas. At the last council, called for the purpose of
negotiating for the return of captive white children in possession of
the Comanches, the assembly had witnessed a dramatic termination. The
same indignity had been offered before, and borne by the whites, too
weak to resist the numbers of the Comanche tribe. In this latter
instance, one of the war chiefs, in spurning the remuneration offered
for the return of a certain white girl, haughtily walked into the
centre of the council, where an insult could be seen by all. His act,
a disgusting one, was anticipated, as it was not the first time it had
been witnessed, when one of the Texans present drew a six-shooter and
killed the chief in the act. The hatchet of the Comanche was instantly
dug up, and had not been buried at the time we were crossing a country
claimed by him as his hunting ground.

Yet these drovers seemed to have no fear of an inferior race. We held
our course without a halt, scarcely a day passing without seeing more
or less fresh sign of Indians. After crossing the South Fork of the
Brazos, we were attacked one morning just at dawn, the favorite hour
of the Indian for a surprise. Four men were on herd with the cattle
and one near by with the remuda, our night horses all securely tied to
the wagon wheels. A feint attack was made on the commissary, but
under the leadership of Goodnight a majority of us scrambled into our
saddles and rode to the rescue of the remuda, the chief objective
of the surprise. Two of the boys from the herd had joined the horse
wrangler, and on our arrival all three were wickedly throwing lead at
the circling Indians. The remuda was running at the time, and as we
cut through between it and the savages we gave them the benefit of our
rifles and six-shooter in passing. The shots turned the saddle stock
back towards our camp and the mounted braves continued on their
course, not willing to try issues with us, although they outnumbered
us three to one. A few arrows had imbedded themselves in the ground
around camp at the first assault, but once our rifles were able to
distinguish an object clearly, the Indians kept well out of reach. The
cattle made a few surges, but once the remuda was safe, there was
an abundance of help in holding them, and they quieted down before
sunrise. The Comanches had no use for cattle, except to kill and
torture them, as they preferred the flesh of the buffalo, and once
our saddle stock and the contents of the wagon were denied them, they
faded into the dips of the plain.

The journey was resumed without the delay of an hour. Our first brush
with the noble red man served a good purpose, as we were doubly
vigilant thereafter whenever there was cause to expect an attack.
There was an abundance of water, as we followed up the South Fork and
its tributaries, passing through Buffalo Gap, which was afterward a
well-known landmark on the Texas and Montana cattle trail. Passing
over the divide between the waters of the Brazos and Concho, we struck
the old Butterfield stage route, running by way of Fort Concho to
El Paso, Texas, on the Rio Grande. This stage road was the original
Staked Plain, surveyed and located by General John Pope in 1846. The
route was originally marked by stakes, until it became a thoroughfare,
from which the whole of northwest Texas afterward took its name. There
was a ninety-six mile dry drive between the headwaters of the Concho
and Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos, and before attempting it we
rested a few days. Here Indians made a second attack on us, and
although as futile as the first, one of the horse wranglers received
an arrow in the shoulder. In attempting to remove it the shaft
separated from the steel arrowhead, leaving the latter imbedded in the
lad's shoulder. We were then one hundred and twelve miles distant from
Fort Concho, the nearest point where medical relief might be expected.
The drovers were alarmed for the man's welfare; it was impossible to
hold the herd longer, so the young fellow volunteered to make the ride
alone. He was given the best horse in the remuda, and with the falling
of darkness started for Fort Concho. I had the pleasure of meeting him
afterward, as happy as he was hale and hearty.

The start across the arid stretch was made at noon. Every hoof had
been thoroughly watered in advance, and with the heat of summer on us
it promised to be an ordeal to man and beast. But Loving had driven it
before, and knew fully what was before him as we trailed out under a
noonday sun. An evening halt was made for refreshing the inner man,
and as soon as darkness settled over us the herd was again started.
We were conscious of the presence of Indians, and deceived them
by leaving our camp-fire burning, but holding our effects closely
together throughout the night, the remuda even mixing with the cattle.
When day broke we were fully thirty miles from our noon camp of the
day before, yet with the exception of an hour's rest there was never a
halt. A second day and night were spent in forging ahead, though it
is doubtful if we averaged much over a mile an hour during that time.
About fifteen miles out from the Pecos we were due to enter a canon
known as Castle Mountain Gap, some three or four miles long, the exit
of which was in sight of the river. We were anxious to reach the
entrance of this canon before darkness on the third day, as we could
then cut the cattle into bunches, the cliffs on either side forming a
lane. Our horses were as good as worthless during the third day, but
the saddle mules seemed to stand grief nobly, and by dint of ceaseless
effort we reached the canon and turned the cattle loose into it. This
was the turning-point in the dry drive. That night two men took half
the remuda and went through to Horsehead Crossing, returning with them
early the next morning, and we once more had fresh mounts. The herd
had been nursed through the canon during the night, and although it
was still twelve miles to the river, I have always believed that those
beeves knew that water was at hand. They walked along briskly; instead
of the constant moaning, their heads were erect, bawling loud and
deep. The oxen drawing the wagon held their chains taut, and the
commissary moved forward as if drawn by a fresh team. There was no
attempt to hold the herd compactly, and within an hour after starting
on our last lap the herd was strung out three miles. The rear was
finally abandoned, and when half the distance was covered, the drag
cattle to the number of fully five hundred turned out of the trail
and struck direct for the river. They had scented the water over five
miles, and as far as control was concerned the herd was as good as
abandoned, except that the water would hold them.

Horsehead Crossing was named by General Pope. There is a difference of
opinion as to the origin of the name, some contending that it was due
to the meanderings of the river, forming a horse's head, and others
that the surveying party was surprised by Indians and lost their
stock. None of us had slept for three nights, and the feeling of
relief on reaching the Pecos, shared alike by man and beast, is
indescribable. Unless one has endured such a trial, only a faint idea
of its hardships can be fully imagined--the long hours of patient
travel at a snail's pace, enveloped by clouds of dust by day, and at
night watching every shadow for a lurking savage. I have since slept
many a time in the saddle, but in crossing that arid belt the one
consuming desire to reach the water ahead benumbed every sense save
watchfulness.

All the cattle reached the river before the middle of the afternoon,
covering a front of five or six miles. The banks of the Pecos were
abrupt, there being fully one hundred and twenty-five feet of deep
water in the channel at the stage crossing. Entrance to the ford
consisted of a wagon-way, cut through the banks, and the cattle
crowded into the river above and below, there being but one exit
on either side. Some miles above, the beeves had found several
passageways down to the water, but in drifting up and down stream
they missed these entrances on returning. A rally was made late that
afternoon to rout the cattle out of the river-bed, one half the outfit
going above, the remainder working around Horsehead, where the bulk of
the herd had watered. I had gone upstream with Goodnight, but before
we reached the upper end of the cattle fresh Indian sign was noticed.
There was enough broken country along the river to shelter the
redskins, but we kept in the open and cautiously examined every brake
within gunshot of an entrance to the river. We succeeded in getting
all the animals out of the water before dark, with the exception of
one bunch, where the exit would require the use of a mattock before
the cattle could climb it, and a few head that had bogged in the
quicksand below Horsehead Crossing. There was little danger of a rise
in the river, the loose contingent had a dry sand-bar on which to
rest, and as the Indians had no use for them there was little danger
of their being molested before morning.

We fell back about a mile from the river and camped for the night.
Although we were all dead for sleep, extra caution was taken to
prevent a surprise, either Goodnight or Loving remaining on guard over
the outfit, seeing that the men kept awake on herd and that the guards
changed promptly. Charlie Goodnight owned a horse that he contended
could scent an Indian five hundred yards, and I have never questioned
the statement. He had used him in the Ranger service. The horse by
various means would show his uneasiness in the immediate presence of
Indians, and once the following summer we moved camp at midnight on
account of the warnings of that same horse. We had only a remuda with
us at the time, but another outfit encamped with us refused to go, and
they lost half their horses from an Indian surprise the next morning
and never recovered them. I remember the ridicule which was expressed
at our moving camp on the warnings of a horse. "Injun-bit,"
"Man-afraid-of-his-horses," were some of the terms applied to us,--yet
the practical plainsman knew enough to take warning from his dumb
beast. Fear, no doubt, gives horses an unusual sense of smell, and I
have known them to detect the presence of a bear, on a favorable wind,
at an incredible distance.

The night passed quietly, and early the next morning we rode to
recover the remainder of the cattle. An effort was also made to rescue
the bogged ones. On approaching the river, we found the beeves still
resting quietly on the sand-bar. But we had approached them at an
angle, for directly over head and across the river was a brake
overgrown with thick brush, a splendid cover in which Indians might be
lurking in the hope of ambushing any one who attempted to drive out
the beeves. Two men were left with a single mattock to cut out and
improve the exit, while the rest of us reconnoitered the thickety
motte across the river. Goodnight was leery of the thicket, and