suggested firing a few shots into it. We all had long-range guns, the
distance from bank to bank was over two hundred yards, and a fusillade
of shots was accordingly poured into the motte. To my surprise we were
rewarded by seeing fully twenty Indians skulk out of the upper end of
the cover. Every man raised his sights and gave them a parting volley,
but a mesquite thicket, in which their horses were secreted, soon
sheltered them and they fell back into the hills on the western side
of the river. With the coast thus cleared, half a dozen of us rode
down into the river-bed and drove out the last contingent of about
three hundred cattle. Goodnight informed us that those Indians had
no doubt been watching us for days, and cautioned us never to give a
Comanche an advantage, advice which I never forgot.

On our return every one of the bogged cattle had been freed except two
heavy beeves. These animals were mired above the ford, in rather deep
water, and it was simply impossible to release them. The drovers were
anxious to cross the river that afternoon, and a final effort was made
to rescue the two steers. The oxen were accordingly yoked, and, with
all the chain available, were driven into the river and fastened on
to the nearest one. Three mounted drivers had charge of the team, and
when the word was given six yoke of cattle bowed their necks and threw
their weight against the yokes; but the quicksand held the steer in
spite of all their efforts. The chain was freed from it, and the oxen
were brought around and made fast again, at an angle and where the
footing was better for the team. Again the word was given, and as
the six yoke swung round, whips and ropes were plied amid a general
shouting, and the team brought out the steer, but with a broken neck.
There were no regrets, and our attention was at once given to the
other steer. The team circled around, every available chain was
brought into use, in order to afford the oxen good footing on a
straight-away pull with the position in which the beef lay bogged.
The word was given for an easy pull, the oxen barely stretched their
chains, and were stopped. Goodnight cautioned the drivers that unless
the pull was straight ahead another neck would be broken. A second
trial was made; the oxen swung and weaved, the chains fairly cried,
the beef's head went under water, but the team was again checked in
time to keep the steer from drowning. After a breathing spell for oxen
and victim, the call was made for a rush. A driver was placed over
every yoke and the word given, and the oxen fell to their knees in the
struggle, whips cracked over their backs, ropes were plied by every
man in charge, and, amid a din of profanity applied to the struggling
cattle, the team fell forward in a general collapse. At first it was
thought the chain had parted, but as the latter came out of the water
it held in its iron grasp the horns and a portion of the skull of the
dying beef. Several of us rode out to the victim, whose brain lay
bare, still throbbing and twitching with life. Rather than allow his
remains to pollute the river, we made a last pull at an angle, and the
dead beef was removed.

We bade Horsehead Crossing farewell that afternoon and camped for the
night above Dagger Bend. Our route now lay to the northwest, or up
the Pecos River. We were then out twenty-one days from Belknap,
and although only half way to our destination, the worst of it was
considered over. There was some travel up and down the Pecos valley,
the route was even then known as the Chisum trail, and afterward
extended as far north as Fort Logan in Colorado and other government
posts in Wyoming. This cattle trace should never be confounded with
the Chisholm trail, first opened by a half-breed named Jesse Chisholm,
which ran from Red River Station on the northern boundary of Texas to
various points in Kansas. In cutting across the bends of the Rio Pecos
we secured water each day for the herd, although we were frequently
under the necessity of sloping down the banks with mattocks to let the
cattle into the river. By this method it often took us three or four
hours to water the herd. Until we neared Fort Sumner precaution never
relaxed against an Indian surprise. Their sign was seen almost daily,
but as there were weaker outfits than ours passing through we escaped
any further molestation.

The methods of handling such a herd were a constant surprise to me, as
well as the schooling of these plainsmen drovers. Goodnight had come
to the plains when a boy of ten, and was a thorough master of their
secrets. On one occasion, about midway between Horsehead Crossing and
our destination, difficulty was encountered in finding an entrance to
the river on account of its abrupt banks. It was late in the day,
and in order to insure a quiet night with the cattle water became an
urgent necessity. Our young foreman rode ahead and found a dry, sandy
creek, its bed fully fifty yards wide, but no water, though the sand
was damp. The herd was held back until sunset, when the cattle were
turned into the creek bed and held as compactly as possible. The heavy
beeves naturally walked back and forth, up and down, the sand just
moist enough to aggravate them after a day's travel under a July sun.
But the tramping soon agitated the sands, and within half an hour
after the herd had entered the dry creek the water arose in pools,
and the cattle drank to their hearts' content. As dew falls at night,
moisture likewise rises in the earth, and with the twilight hour, the
agitation of the sands, and the weight of the cattle, a spring was
produced in the desert waste.

Fort Sumner was a six-company post and the agency of the Apaches and
Navajos. These two tribes numbered over nine thousand people, and our
herd was intended to supply the needs of the military post and these
Indians. The contract was held by Patterson & Roberts, eligible by
virtue of having cast their fortunes with the victor in "the late
unpleasantness," and otherwise fine men. We reached the post on the
20th of July. There was a delay of several days before the cattle were
accepted, but all passed the inspection with the exception of about
one hundred head. These were cattle which had not recuperated from the
dry drive. Some few were footsore or thin in flesh, but taken as a
whole the delivery had every earmark of an honest one. Fortunately
this remnant was sold a few days later to some Colorado men, and
we were foot-loose and free. Even the oxen had gone in on the main
delivery, and harnesses were accordingly bought, a light tongue
fitted to the wagon, and we were ready to start homeward. Mules were
substituted for the oxen, and we averaged forty miles a day returning,
almost itching for an Indian attack, as we had supplied ourselves with
ammunition from the post sutler. The trip had been a financial success
(the government was paying ten cents a pound for beef on foot),
friendly relations had been established with the holders of the award,
and we hastened home to gather and drive another herd.




CHAPTER III

A SECOND TRIP TO FORT SUMNER


On the return trip we traveled mainly by night. The proceeds from the
sale of the herd were in the wagon, and had this fact been known it
would have been a tempting prize for either bandits or Indians. After
leaving Horsehead Crossing we had the advantage of the dark of the
moon, as it was a well-known fact that the Comanches usually choose
moonlight nights for their marauding expeditions. Another thing in our
favor, both going and returning, was the lightness of travel westward,
it having almost ceased during the civil war, though in '66 it showed
a slight prospect of resumption. Small bands of Indians were still
abroad on horse-stealing forays, but the rich prizes of wagon trains
bound for El Paso or Santa Fe no longer tempted the noble red man
in force. This was favorable wind to our sail, but these plainsmen
drovers predicted that, once traffic westward was resumed, the
Comanche and his ally would be about the first ones to know it. The
redskins were constantly passing back and forth, to and from their
reservation in the Indian Territory, and news travels fast even among
savages.

We reached the Brazos River early in August. As the second start was
not to be made until the latter part of the following month, a general
settlement was made with the men and all reengaged for the next trip.
I received eighty dollars in gold as my portion, it being the first
money I ever earned as a citizen. The past two months were a splendid
experience for one going through a formative period, and I had
returned feeling that I was once more a man among men. All the
uncertainty as to my future had fallen from me, and I began to look
forward to the day when I also might be the owner of lands and cattle.
There was no good reason why I should not, as the range was as free
as it was boundless. There were any quantity of wild cattle in the
country awaiting an owner, and a good mount of horses, a rope, and a
branding iron were all the capital required to start a brand. I knew
the success which my father had made in Virginia before the war
and had seen it repeated on a smaller scale by my elder brother in
Missouri, but here was a country which discounted both of those
in rearing cattle without expense. Under the best reasoning at my
command, I had reached the promised land, and henceforth determined to
cast my fortunes with Texas.

Rather than remain idle around the Loving headquarters for a month,
I returned with George Edwards to his home. Altogether too cordial a
welcome was extended us, but I repaid the hospitality of the ranch by
relating our experiences of trail and Indian surprise. Miss Gertrude
was as charming as ever, but the trip to Sumner and back had cooled
my ardor and I behaved myself as an acceptable guest should. The
time passed rapidly, and on the last day of the month we returned to
Belknap. Active preparations were in progress for the driving of the
second herd, oxen had been secured, and a number of extra fine horses
were already added to the saddle stock. The remuda had enjoyed a good
month's rest and were in strong working flesh, and within a few days
all the boys reported for duty. The senior member of the firm was the
owner of a large number of range cattle, and it was the intention to
round up and gather as many of his beeves as possible for the coming
drive. We should have ample time to do this; by waiting until the
latter part of the month for starting, it was believed that few
Indians would be encountered, as the time was nearing for their annual
buffalo hunt for robes and a supply of winter meat. This was a gala
occasion with the tribes which depended on the bison for food and
clothing; and as the natural hunting grounds of the Comanches and
Kiowas lay south of Red River, the drovers considered that that would
be an opportune time to start. The Indians would no doubt confine
their operations to the first few tiers of counties in Texas, as the
robes and dried meat would tax the carrying capacity of their horses
returning, making it an object to kill their supplies as near their
winter encampment as possible.

Some twenty days were accordingly spent in gathering beeves along the
main Brazos and Clear Fork. Our herd consisted of about a thousand in
the straight ranch brand, and after receiving and road-branding five
hundred outside cattle we were ready to start. Sixteen men constituted
our numbers, the horses were culled down until but five were left to
the man, and with the previous armament the start was made. Never
before or since have I enjoyed such an outing as this was until we
struck the dry drive on approaching the Pecos River. The absence of
the Indians was correctly anticipated, and either their presence
elsewhere, preying on the immense buffalo herds, or the drift of
the seasons, had driven countless numbers of that animal across our
pathway. There were days and days that we were never out of sight of
the feeding myriads of these shaggy brutes, and at night they became
a menace to our sleeping herd. During the day, when the cattle were
strung out in trail formation, we had difficulty in keeping the two
species separated, but we shelled the buffalo right and left and moved
forward. Frequently, when they occupied the country ahead of us,
several men rode forward and scattered them on either hand until a
right of way was effected for the cattle to pass. While they remained
with us we killed our daily meat from their numbers, and several of
the boys secured fine robes. They were very gentle, but when occasion
required could give a horse a good race, bouncing along, lacking grace
in flight.

Our cook was a negro. One day as we were nearing Buffalo Gap, a
number of big bulls, attracted by the covered wagon, approached the
commissary, the canvas sheet of which shone like a white flag. The
wagon was some distance in the rear, and as the buffalo began to
approach it they would scare and circle around, but constantly coming
nearer the object of their curiosity. The darky finally became alarmed
for fear they would gore his oxen, and unearthed an old Creedmoor
rifle which he carried in the wagon. The gun could be heard for miles,
and when the cook opened on the playful denizens of the plain, a
number of us hurried back, supposing it was an Indian attack. When
within a quarter-mile of the wagon and the situation became clear, we
took it more leisurely, but the fusillade never ceased until we rode
up and it dawned on the darky's mind that rescue was at hand. He had
halted his team, and from a secure position in the front end of the
wagon had shot down a dozen buffalo bulls. Pure curiosity and the
blood of their comrades had kept them within easy range of the
murderous Creedmoor; and the frenzied negro, supposing that his team
might be attacked any moment, had mown down a circle of the innocent
animals. We charged and drove away the remainder, after which we
formed a guard of honor in escorting the commissary until its timid
driver overtook the herd.

The last of the buffalo passed out of sight before we reached the
headwaters of the Concho. In crossing the dry drive approaching the
Pecos we were unusually fortunate. As before, we rested in advance of
starting, and on the evening of the second day out several showers
fell, cooling the atmosphere until the night was fairly chilly. The
rainfall continued all the following day in a gentle mist, and with
little or no suffering to man or beast early in the afternoon we
entered the canon known as Castle Mountain Gap, and the dry drive was
virtually over. Horsehead Crossing was reached early the next morning,
the size of the herd making it possible to hold it compactly, and
thus preventing any scattering along that stream. There had been
no freshets in the river since June, and the sandy sediment had
solidified, making a safe crossing for both herd and wagon. After the
usual rest of a few days, the herd trailed up the Pecos with scarcely
an incident worthy of mention. Early in November we halted some
distance below Fort Sumner, where we were met by Mr. Loving,--who had
gone on to the post in our advance,--with the report that other cattle
had just been accepted, and that there was no prospect of an immediate
delivery. In fact, the outlook was anything but encouraging, unless we
wintered ours and had them ready for the first delivery in the spring.

The herd was accordingly turned back to Bosque Grande on the river,
and we went into permanent quarters. There was a splendid winter range
all along the Pecos, and we loose-herded the beeves or rode lines in
holding them in the different bends of the river, some of which
were natural inclosures. There was scarcely any danger of Indian
molestation during the winter months, and with the exception of a
few severe "northers" which swept down the valley, the cattle did
comparatively well. Tents were secured at the post; corn was purchased
for our saddle mules; and except during storms little or no privation
was experienced during the winter in that southern climate. Wood was
plentiful in the grove in which we were encamped, and a huge fireplace
was built out of clay and sticks in the end of each tent, assuring us
comfort against the elements.

The monotony of existence was frequently broken by the passing of
trading caravans, both up and down the river. There was a fair trade
with the interior of Mexico, as well as in various settlements along
the Rio Grande and towns in northern New Mexico. When other means of
diversion failed we had recourse to Sumner, where a sutler's bar and
gambling games flourished. But the most romantic traveler to arrive or
pass during the winter was Captain Burleson, late of the Confederacy.
As a sportsman the captain was a gem of the first water, carrying with
him, besides a herd of nearly a thousand cattle, three race-horses,
several baskets of fighting chickens, and a pack of hounds. He had
a large Mexican outfit in charge of his cattle, which were in bad
condition on their arrival in March, he having drifted about all
winter, gambling, racing his horses, and fighting his chickens. The
herd represented his winnings. As we had nothing to match, all we
could offer was our hospitality. Captain Burleson went into camp below
us on the river and remained our neighbor until we rounded up and
broke camp in the spring. He had been as far west as El Paso during
the winter, and was then drifting north in the hope of finding a
market for his herd. We indulged in many hunts, and I found him the
true gentleman and sportsman in every sense of the word. As I recall
him now, he was a lovable vagabond, and for years afterward stories
were told around Fort Sumner of his wonderful nerve as a poker player.

Early in April an opportunity occurred for a delivery of cattle to the
post. Ours were the only beeves in sight, those of Captain Burleson
not qualifying, and a round-up was made and the herd tendered for
inspection. Only eight hundred were received, which was quite a
disappointment to the drovers, as at least ninety per cent of the
tender filled every qualification. The motive in receiving the few
soon became apparent, when a stranger appeared and offered to buy the
remaining seven hundred at a ridiculously low figure. But the drovers
had grown suspicious of the contractors and receiving agent, and,
declining the offer, went back and bought the herd of Captain
Burleson. Then, throwing the two contingents together, and boldly
announcing their determination of driving to Colorado, they started
the herd out past Fort Sumner with every field-glass in the post
leveled on us. The military requirements of Sumner, for its own and
Indian use, were well known to the drovers, and a scarcity of beef was
certain to occur at that post before other cattle could be bargained
for and arrive. My employers had evidently figured out the situation
to a nicety, for during the forenoon of the second day out from the
fort we were overtaken by the contractors. Of course they threw on the
government inspector all the blame for the few cattle received, and
offered to buy five or six hundred more out of the herd. But the shoe
was on the other foot now, the drovers acting as independently as the
proverbial hog on ice. The herd never halted, the contractors followed
up, and when we went into camp that evening a trade was closed on one
thousand steers at two dollars a head advance over those which were
received but a few days before. The oxen were even reserved, and after
delivering the beeves at Sumner we continued on northward with the
remnant, nearly all of which were the Burleson cattle.

The latter part of April we arrived at the Colorado line. There we
were halted by the authorities of that territory, under some act of
quarantine against Texas cattle. We went into camp on the nearest
water, expecting to prove that our little herd had wintered at Fort
Sumner, and were therefore immune from quarantine, when buyers arrived
from Trinidad, Colorado. The steers were a mixed lot, running from a
yearling to big, rough four and five year olds, and when Goodnight
returned from Sumner with a certificate, attested to by every officer
of that post, showing that the cattle had wintered north of latitude
34, a trade was closed at once, even the oxen going in at the
phenomenal figures of one hundred and fifty dollars a yoke. We
delivered the herd near Trinidad, going into that town to outfit
before returning. The necessary alterations were made to the wagon,
mules were harnessed in, and we started home in gala spirits. In a
little over thirty days my employers had more than doubled their money
on the Burleson cattle and were naturally jubilant.

The proceeds of the Trinidad sale were carried in the wagon returning,
though we had not as yet collected for the second delivery at Sumner.
The songs of the birds mixed with our own as we traveled homeward, and
the freshness of early summer on the primitive land, as it rolled away
in dips and swells, made the trip a delightful outing. Fort Sumner
was reached within a week, where we halted a day and then started on,
having in the wagon a trifle over fifty thousand dollars in gold and
silver. At Sumner two men made application to accompany us back to
Texas, and as they were well armed and mounted, and numbers were an
advantage, they were made welcome. Our winter camp at Bosque Grande
was passed with but a single glance as we dropped down the Pecos
valley at the rate of forty miles a day. Little or no travel was
encountered en route, nor was there any sign of Indians until the
afternoon of our reaching Horsehead Crossing. While passing Dagger
Bend, four miles above the ford, Goodnight and a number of us boys
were riding several hundred yards in advance of the wagon, telling
stories of old sweethearts. The road made a sudden bend around some
sand-hills, and the advance guard had passed out of sight of the rear,
when a fresh Indian trail was cut; and as we reined in our mounts to
examine the sign, we were fired on. The rifle-shots, followed by a
flight of arrows, passed over us, and we took to shelter like flushed
quail. I was riding a good saddle horse and bolted off on the opposite
side of the road from the shooting; but in the scattering which ensued
a number of mules took down the road. One of the two men picked up at
the post was a German, whose mule stampeded after his mates, and who
received a galling fire from the concealed Indians, the rest of us
turning to the nearest shelter. With the exception of this one man,
all of us circled back through the mesquite brush and reached the
wagon, which had halted. Meanwhile the shooting had attracted the men
behind, who charged through the sand-dunes, flanking the Indians, who
immediately decamped. Security of the remuda and wagon was a first
consideration, and danger of an ambush prevented our men from
following up the redskins. Order was soon restored, when we proceeded,
and shortly met the young German coming back up the road, who merely
remarked on meeting us, "Dem Injuns shot at me."

The Indians had evidently not been expecting us. From where they
turned out and where the attack was made we back-trailed them in
the road for nearly a mile. They had simply heard us coming, and,
supposing that the advance guard was all there was in the party, had
made the attack and were in turn themselves surprised at our numbers.
But the warning was henceforth heeded, and on reaching the crossing
more Indian sign was detected. Several large parties had evidently
crossed the river that morning, and were no doubt at that moment
watching us from the surrounding hills. The canon of Castle Mountain
Gap was well adapted for an Indian ambush; and as it was only twelve
miles from the ford to its mouth, we halted within a short distance
of the entrance, as if encamping for the night. All the horses under
saddle were picketed fully a quarter mile from the wagon,--easy marks
for poor Lo,--and the remuda was allowed to wander at will, an air of
perfect carelessness prevailing in the camp. From the sign which
we had seen that day, there was little doubt but there were in the
neighborhood of five hundred Indians in the immediate vicinity of
Horsehead Crossing, and we did everything we could to create the
impression that we were tender-feet. But with the falling of darkness
every horse was brought in and we harnessed up and started, leaving
the fire burning to identify our supposed camp. The drovers gave our
darky cook instructions, in case of an attack while passing through
the Gap, never to halt his team, but push ahead for the plain. About
one third of us took the immediate lead of the wagon, the remuda
following closely, and the remainder of the men bringing up the rear.
The moon was on the wane and would not rise until nearly midnight,
and for the first few miles, or until we entered the canon, there was
scarce a sound to disturb the stillness of the night. The sandy road
even muffled the noise of the wagon and the tramping of horses; but
once we entered that rocky canon, the rattling of our commissary
seemed to summon every Comanche and his ally to come and rob us. There
was never a halt, the reverberations of our caravan seeming to reecho
through the Gap, resounding forward and back, until our progress
must have been audible at Horsehead Crossing. But the expected never
happens, and within an hour we reached the summit of the plain, where
the country was open and clear and an attack could have been easily
repelled. Four fresh mules had been harnessed in for the night, and
striking a free gait, we put twenty miles of that arid stretch behind
us before the moon rose. A short halt was made after midnight, for a
change of teams and saddle horses, and then we continued our hurried
travel until near dawn.

Some indistinct objects in our front caused us to halt. It looked like
a caravan, and we hailed it without reply. Several of us dismounted
and crept forward, but the only sign of life was a dull, buzzing sound
which seemed to issue from an outfit of parked wagons. The report was
laid before the two drovers, who advised that we await the dawn,
which was then breaking, as it was possible that the caravan had been
captured and robbed by Indians. A number of us circled around to the
farther side, and as we again approached the wagons in the uncertain
light we hailed again and received in reply a shot, which cut off the
upper lobe of one of the boys' ears. We hugged the ground for some
little time, until the presence of our outfit was discovered by the
lone guardian of the caravan, who welcomed us. He apologized, saying
that on awakening he supposed we were Indians, not having heard our
previous challenge, and fired on us under the impulse of the moment.
He was a well-known trader by the name of "Honey" Allen, and was then
on his way to El Paso, having pulled out on the dry stretch about
twenty-five miles and sent his oxen back to water. His present cargo
consisted of pecans, honey, and a large number of colonies of live
bees, the latter having done the buzzing on our first reconnoitre. At
his destination, so he informed us, the pecans were worth fifty cents
a quart, the honey a dollar a pound, and the bees one hundred dollars
a hive. After repairing the damaged ear, we hurried on, finding
Allen's oxen lying around the water on our arrival. I met him several
years afterward in Denver, Colorado, dressed to kill, barbered, and
highly perfumed. He had just sold eighteen hundred two-year-old steers
and had twenty-five thousand dollars in the bank. "Son, let me tell
you something," said he, as we were taking a drink together; "that
Pecos country was a dangerous region to pick up an honest living in.
I'm going back to God's country,--back where there ain't no Injuns."

Yet Allen died in Texas. There was a charm in the frontier that held
men captive. I always promised myself to return to Virginia to spend
the declining years of my life, but the fulfillment never came. I can
now realize how idle was the expectation, having seen others make the
attempt and fail. I recall the experience of an old cowman, laboring
under a similar delusion, who, after nearly half a century in the
Southwest, concluded to return to the scenes of his boyhood. He had
made a substantial fortune in cattle, and had fought his way through
the vicissitudes of the frontier until success crowned his efforts. A
large family had in the mean time grown up around him, and under
the pretense of giving his children the advantages of an older and
established community he sold his holdings and moved back to his
native borough. Within six months he returned to the straggling
village which he had left on the plains, bringing the family with him.
Shortly afterwards I met him, and anxiously inquired the cause of his
return. "Well, Reed," said he, "I can't make you understand near as
well as though you had tried it yourself. You see I was a stranger in
my native town. The people were all right, I reckon, but I found out
that it was me who had changed. I tried to be sociable with them, but
honest, Reed, I just couldn't stand it in a country where no one ever
asked you to take a drink."

A week was spent in crossing the country between the Concho and Brazos
rivers. Not a day passed but Indian trails were cut, all heading
southward, and on a branch of the Clear Fork we nearly ran afoul of an
encampment of forty teepees and lean-tos, with several hundred horses
in sight. But we never varied our course a fraction, passing within a
quarter mile of their camp, apparently indifferent as to whether they
showed fight or allowed us to pass in peace. Our bluff had the desired
effect; but we made it an object to reach Fort Griffin near midnight
before camping. The Comanche and his ally were great respecters, not
only of their own physical welfare, but of the Henri and Spencer rifle
with which the white man killed the buffalo at the distance of twice
the flight of an arrow. When every advantage was in his favor--ambush
and surprise--Lo was a warrior bold; otherwise he used discretion.




CHAPTER IV

A FATAL TRIP


Before leaving Fort Sumner an agreement had been entered into between
my employers and the contractors for a third herd. The delivery was
set for the first week in September, and twenty-five hundred beeves
were agreed upon, with a liberal leeway above and below that number
in case of accident en route. Accordingly, on our return to Loving's
ranch active preparations were begun for the next drive. Extra horses
were purchased, several new guns of the most modern make were
secured, and the gathering of cattle in Loving's brand began at once,
continuing for six weeks. We combed the hills and valleys along the
main Brazos, and then started west up the Clear Fork, carrying the
beeves with us while gathering. The range was in prime condition, the
cattle were fat and indolent, and with the exception of Indian rumors
there was not a cloud in the sky.

Our last camp was made a few miles above Fort Griffin. Military
protection was not expected, yet our proximity to that post was
considered a security from Indian interference, as at times not over
half the outfit were with the herd. We had nearly completed our
numbers when, one morning early in July, the redskins struck our camp
with the violence of a cyclone. The attack occurred, as usual, about
half an hour before dawn, and, to add to the difficulty of the
situation, the cattle stampeded with the first shot fired. I was on
last guard at the time, and conscious that it was an Indian attack I
unslung a new Sharp's rifle and tore away in the lead of the herd.
With the rumbling of over two thousand running cattle in my ears,
hearing was out of the question, while my sense of sight was rendered
useless by the darkness of the morning hour. Yet I had some very
distinct visions; not from the herd of frenzied beeves, thundering at
my heels, but every shade and shadow in the darkness looked like a
pursuing Comanche. Once I leveled my rifle at a shadow, but hesitated,
when a flash from a six-shooter revealed the object to be one of our
own men. I knew there were four of us with the herd when it stampeded,
but if the rest were as badly bewildered as I was, it was dangerous
even to approach them. But I had a king's horse under me and trusted
my life to him, and he led the run until breaking dawn revealed our
identity to each other.

The presence of two other men with the running herd was then
discovered. We were fully five miles from camp, and giving our
attention to the running cattle we soon turned the lead. The main body
of the herd was strung back for a mile, but we fell on the leaders
right and left, and soon had them headed back for camp. In the mean
time, and with the breaking of day, our trail had been taken up by
both drovers and half a dozen men, who overtook us shortly after
sun-up. A count was made and we had every hoof. A determined fight had
occurred over the remuda and commissary, and three of the Indians'
ponies had been killed, while some thirty arrows had found lodgment
in our wagon. There were no casualties in the cow outfit, and if any
occurred among the redskins, the wounded or killed were carried away
by their comrades before daybreak. All agreed that there were fully
one hundred warriors in the attacking party, and as we slowly drifted
the cattle back to camp doubt was expressed by the drovers whether it
was advisable to drive the herd to its destination in midsummer with
the Comanches out on their old hunting grounds.

A report of the attack was sent into Griffin that morning, and a
company of cavalry took up the Indian trail, followed it until
evening, and returned to the post during the night. Approaching a
government station was generally looked upon as an audacious act
of the redskins, but the contempt of the Comanche and his ally for
citizen and soldier alike was well known on the Texas frontier and
excited little comment. Several years later, in broad daylight, they
raided the town of Weatherford, untied every horse from the hitching
racks, and defiantly rode away with their spoil. But the prevailing
spirits in our camp were not the kind to yield to an inferior race,
and, true to their obligation to the contractors, they pushed forward
preparations to start the herd. Within a week our numbers were
completed, two extra men were secured, and on the morning of July 14,
1867, we trailed out up the Clear Fork with a few over twenty-six
hundred big beeves. It was the same old route to the southwest, there
was a decided lack of enthusiasm over the start, yet never a word of
discouragement escaped the lips of men or employers. I have never been
a superstitious man, have never had a premonition of impending danger,
always rather felt an enthusiasm in my undertakings, yet that morning
when the flag over Fort Griffin faded from our view, I believe there
was not a man in the outfit but realized that our journey would be
disputed by Indians.

Nor had we long to wait. Near the juncture of Elm Creek with the main
Clear Fork we were again attacked at the usual hour in the morning.
The camp was the best available, and yet not a good one for defense,
as the ground was broken by shallow draws and dry washes. There were
about one hundred yards of clear space on three sides of the camp,
while on the exposed side, and thirty yards distant, was a slight
depression of several feet. Fortunately we had a moment's warning, by
several horses snorting and pawing the ground, which caused Goodnight
to quietly awake the men sleeping near him, who in turn were arousing
the others, when a flight of arrows buried themselves in the ground
around us and the war-whoop of the Comanche sounded. Ever cautious,
we had studied the situation on encamping, and had tied our horses,
cavalry fashion, to a heavy rope stretched from the protected side of
the wagon to a high stake driven for the purpose. With the attack the
majority of the men flung themselves into their saddles and started to
the rescue of the remuda, while three others and myself, detailed in
anticipation, ran for the ravine and dropped into it about forty yards
above the wagon. We could easily hear the exultations of the redskins
just below us in the shallow gorge, and an enfilade fire was poured
into them at short range. Two guns were cutting the grass from
underneath the wagon, and, knowing the Indians had crept up the
depression on foot, we began a rapid fire from our carbines and
six-shooters, which created the impression of a dozen rifles on their
flank, and they took to their heels in a headlong rout.

Once the firing ceased, we hailed our men under the wagon and returned
to it. Three men were with the commissary, one of whom was a mere boy,
who was wounded in the head from an arrow during the first moment of
the attack, and was then raving piteously from his sufferings. The
darky cook, who was one of the defenders of the wagon, was consoling
the boy, so with a parting word of encouragement we swung into our
saddles and rode in the direction of dim firing up the creek. The
cattle were out of hearing, but the random shooting directed our
course, and halting several times, we were finally piloted to the
scene of activity. Our hail was met by a shout of welcome, and the
next moment we dashed in among our own and reported the repulse of the
Indians from the wagon. The remuda was dashing about, hither and yon,
a mob of howling savages were circling about, barely within gunshot,
while our men rode cautiously, checking and turning the frenzied
saddle horses, and never missing a chance of judiciously throwing
a little lead. There was no sign of daybreak, and, fearful for the
safety of our commissary, we threw a cordon around the remuda and
started for camp. Although there must have been over one hundred
Indians in the general attack, we were still masters of the situation,
though they followed us until the wagon was reached and the horses
secured in a rope corral. A number of us again sought the protection
of the ravine, and scattering above and below, we got in some telling
shots at short range, when the redskins gave up the struggle and
decamped. As they bore off westward on the main Clear Fork their
hilarious shoutings could be distinctly heard for miles on the
stillness of the morning air.

An inventory of the camp was taken at dawn. The wounded lad received
the first attention. The arrowhead had buried itself below and behind
the ear, but nippers were applied and the steel point was extracted.
The cook washed the wound thoroughly and applied a poultice of meal,
which afforded almost instant relief. While horses were being saddled
to follow the cattle, I cast my eye over the camp and counted over two
hundred arrows within a radius of fifty yards. Two had found lodgment
in the bear-skin on which I slept. Dozens were imbedded in the
running-gear and box of the wagon, while the stationary flashes from
the muzzle of the cook's Creedmoor had concentrated an unusual number
of arrows in and around his citadel. The darky had exercised caution
and corded the six ox-yokes against the front wheel of the wagon in
such a manner as to form a barrier, using the spaces between the
spokes as port-holes. As he never varied his position under the wagon,
the Indians had aimed at his flash, and during the rather brief fight
twenty arrows had buried themselves in that barricade of ox-yokes.

The trail of the beeves was taken at dawn. This made the fifth
stampede of the herd since we started, a very unfortunate thing, for
stampeding easily becomes a mania with range cattle. The steers had
left the bed-ground in an easterly direction, but finding that they
were not pursued, the men had gradually turned them to the right, and
at daybreak the herd was near Elm Creek, where it was checked. We rode
the circle in a free gallop, the prairie being cut into dust and the
trail as easy to follow as a highway. As the herd happened to land on
our course, after the usual count the commissary was sent for, and it
and the remuda were brought up. With the exception of wearing hobbles,
the oxen were always given their freedom at night. This morning one of
them was found in a dying condition from an arrow in his stomach. A
humane shot had relieved the poor beast, and his mate trailed up to
the herd, tied behind the wagon with a rope. There were several odd
oxen among the cattle and the vacancy was easily filled. If I am
lacking in compassion for my red brother, the lack has been heightened
by his fiendish atrocities to dumb animals. I have been witness to
the ruin of several wagon trains captured by Indians, have seen their
ashes and irons, and even charred human remains, and was scarce moved
to pity because of the completeness of the hellish work. Death is
merciful and humane when compared to the hamstringing of oxen, gouging
out their eyes, severing their ears, cutting deep slashes from
shoulder to hip, and leaving the innocent victim to a lingering death.
And when dumb animals are thus mutilated in every conceivable form
of torment, as if for the amusement of the imps of the evil one, my
compassion for poor Lo ceases.

It was impossible to send the wounded boy back to the settlements, so
a comfortable bunk was made for him in the wagon. Late in the evening
we resumed our journey, expecting to drive all night, as it was good
starlight. Fair progress was made, but towards morning a rainstorm
struck us, and the cattle again stampeded. In all my outdoor
experience I never saw such pitchy darkness as accompanied that storm;
although galloping across a prairie in a blustering rainfall, it
required no strain of the imagination to see hills and mountains and
forests on every hand. Fourteen men were with the herd, yet it was
impossible to work in unison, and when day broke we had less than half
the cattle. The lead had been maintained, but in drifting at random
with the storm several contingents of beeves had cut off from the main
body, supposedly from the rear. When the sun rose, men were dispatched
in pairs and trios, the trail of the missing steers was picked up, and
by ten o'clock every hoof was in hand or accounted for. I came in with
the last contingent and found the camp in an uproar over the supposed
desertion of one of the hands. Yankee Bill, a sixteen-year-old boy,
and another man were left in charge of the herd when the rest of us
struck out to hunt the missing cattle. An hour after sunrise the boy
was seen to ride deliberately away from his charge, without cause or
excuse, and had not returned. Desertion was the general supposition.
Had he not been mounted on one of the firm's horses the offense might
have been overlooked. But the delivery of the herd depended on the
saddle stock, and two men were sent on his trail. The rain had
freshened the ground, and after trailing the horse for fifteen miles
the boy was overtaken while following cattle tracks towards the herd.
He had simply fallen asleep in the saddle, and the horse had wandered
away. Yankee Bill had made the trip to Sumner with us the fall before,
and stood well with his employers, so the incident was forgiven and
forgotten.

From Elm Creek to the beginning of the dry drive was one continual
struggle with stampeding cattle or warding off Indians. In spite of
careful handling, the herd became spoiled, and would run from the
howl of a wolf or the snort of a horse. The dark hour before dawn was
usually the crucial period, and until the arid belt was reached all
hands were aroused at two o'clock in the morning. The start was timed
so as to reach the dry drive during the full of the moon, and although
it was a test of endurance for man and beast, there was relief in
the desert waste--from the lurking savage--which recompensed for its
severity. Three sleepless nights were borne without a murmur, and on
our reaching Horsehead Crossing and watering the cattle they were
turned back on the mesa and freed for the time being. The presence of
Indian sign around the ford was the reason for turning loose, but at
the round-up the next morning the experiment proved a costly one, as
three hundred and sixty-three beeves were missing. The cattle were
nervous and feverish through suffering from thirst, and had they been
bedded closely, stampeding would have resulted, the foreman choosing
the least of two alternatives in scattering the herd. That night we
slept the sleep of exhausted men, and the next morning even awaited
the sun on the cattle before throwing them together, giving the Indian
thieves full ten hours the start. The stealing of cattle by the
Comanches was something unusual, and there was just reason for
believing that the present theft was instigated by renegade Mexicans,
allies in the war of '36. Three distinct trails left the range around
the Crossing, all heading south, each accompanied by fully fifty
horsemen. One contingent crossed the Pecos at an Indian trail about
twenty-five miles below Horsehead, another still below, while the
third continued on down the left bank of the river. Yankee Bill and
"Mocho" Wilson, a one-armed man, followed the latter trail, sighting
them late in the evening, but keeping well in the open. When the
Comanches had satisfied themselves that but two men were following
them, small bands of warriors dropped out under cover of the broken
country and attempted to gain the rear of our men. Wilson was an old
plainsman, and once he saw the hopelessness of recovering the cattle,
he and Yankee Bill began a cautious retreat. During the night and when
opposite the ford where the first contingent of beeves crossed, they
were waylaid, while returning, by the wily redskins. The nickering of
a pony warned them of the presence of the enemy, and circling wide,
they avoided an ambush, though pursued by the stealthy Comanches.
Wilson was mounted on a good horse, while Yankee Bill rode a mule, and
so closely were they pursued, that on reaching the first broken ground
Bill turned into a coulee, while Mocho bore off on an angle, firing
his six-shooter to attract the enemy after him. Yankee Bill told
us afterward how he held the muzzle of his mule for an hour on
dismounting, to keep the rascal from bawling after the departing
horse. Wilson reached camp after midnight and reported the
hopelessness of the situation; but morning came, and with it no Yankee
Bill in camp. Half a dozen of us started in search of him, under the
leadership of the one-armed plainsman, and an hour afterward Bill was
met riding leisurely up the river. When rebuked by his comrade for not
coming in under cover of darkness, he retorted, "Hell, man, I wasn't
going to run my mule to death just because there were a few Comanches
in the country!"

In trailing the missing cattle the day previous, I had accompanied Mr.
Loving to the second Indian crossing. The country opposite the ford
was broken and brushy, the trail was five or six hours old, and,
fearing an ambush, the drover refused to follow them farther. With the
return of Yankee Bill safe and sound to camp, all hope of recovering
the beeves was abandoned, and we crossed the Pecos and turned up that
river. An effort was now made to quiet the herd and bring it back to a
normal condition, in order to fit it for delivery. With Indian raids,
frenzy in stampeding, and an unavoidable dry drive, the cattle had
gaunted like rails. But with an abundance of water and by merely
grazing the remainder of the distance, it was believed that the beeves
would recover their old form and be ready for inspection at the end of
the month of August. Indian sign was still plentiful, but in smaller
bands, and with an unceasing vigilance we wormed our way up the Pecos