County by remittances from Abilene, and early in the fall I made up an
outfit to go down and gather the remnant of "Lazy L" cattle. Taking
along the entire new remuda, we dropped down in advance of the
branding season, visited among the neighboring ranches, and offered a
dollar a head for solitary animals that had drifted any great distance
from the range of the brand. A camp was established at some corrals on
the original range, extra men were employed with the opening of the
branding season, and after twenty days' constant riding we started
home with a few over nine hundred head, not counting two hundred and
odd calves. Little wonder the trustee threatened to sue me; but then
it was his own proposition.

On arriving at the Edwards ranch, we halted a few days in order to
gather the fruits of my first mavericking. The fall work was nearly
finished, and having previously made arrangements to put my brand
under herd, we received two hundred and fifty more, with seventy-five
thrifty calves, before proceeding on to the new ranch on the Clear
Fork. On arriving there we branded the calves, put the two brands
under herd, corralling them at night and familiarizing them with their
new home, and turning them loose at the end of two weeks. Moving
cattle in the fall was contrary to the best results, but it was an
idle time, and they were all young stuff and easily located. During
the interim of loose-herding this second contingent of stock cattle,
the branding had been finished on the ranch, and I was able to take an
account of my year's work. The "Lazy L" was continued, and from that
brand alone there was an increase of over seventeen hundred calves.
With all the expenses of the trail deducted, the steer cattle alone
had paid for the entire brand, besides adding over five thousand
dollars to my cash capital. Who will gainsay my statement that Texas
was a good country in the year 1871?




CHAPTER IX

THE SCHOOL OF EXPERIENCE


Success had made me daring. And yet I must have been wandering
aimlessly, for had my ambition been well directed, there is no telling
to what extent I might have amassed a fortune. Opportunity was
knocking at my gate, a giant young commonwealth was struggling in the
throes of political revolution, while I wandered through it all like
a blind man led by a child. Precedent was of little value, as present
environment controlled my actions. The best people in Texas were
doubtful of ever ridding themselves of the baneful incubus of
Reconstruction. Men on whose judgment I relied laughed at me for
acquiring more land than a mere homestead. Stock cattle were in such
disrepute that they had no cash value. Many a section of deeded land
changed owners for a milk cow, while surveyors would no longer locate
new lands for the customary third, but insisted on a half interest.
Ranchmen were so indifferent that many never went off their home range
in branding the calf crop, not considering a ten or twenty per
cent loss of any importance. Yet through it all--from my Virginia
rearing--there lurked a wavering belief that some day, in some manner,
these lands and cattle would have a value. But my faith was neither
the bold nor the assertive kind, and I drifted along, clinging to any
passing straw of opinion.

The Indians were still giving trouble along the Texas frontier. A line
of government posts, extending from Red River on the north to the Rio
Grande on the south, made a pretense of holding the Comanches and
their allies in check, while this arm of the service was ably seconded
by the Texas Rangers. Yet in spite of all precaution, the redskins
raided the settlements at their pleasure, stealing horses and adding
rapine and murder to their category of crimes. Hence for a number of
years after my marriage we lived at the Edwards ranch as a matter of
precaution against Indian raids. I was absent from home so much that
this arrangement suited me, and as the new ranch was distant but a
day's ride, any inconvenience was more than recompensed in security.
It was my intention to follow the trail and trading, at the same time
running a ranch where anything unfit for market might be sent to
mature or increase. As long as I could add to my working capital, I
was content, while the remnants of my speculations found a refuge on
the Clear Fork.

During the winter of 1871-72 very little of importance transpired.
Several social letters passed between Major Mabry and myself, in one
of which he casually mentioned the fact that land scrip had declined
until it was offered on the streets of the capital as low as twenty
dollars a section. He knew I had been dabbling in land certificates,
and in a friendly spirit wanted to post me on their decline, and had
incidentally mentioned the fact for my information. Some inkling
of horse sense told me that I ought to secure more land, and after
thinking the matter over, I wrote to a merchant in Austin, and had him
buy me one hundred sections. He was very anxious to purchase a second
hundred at the same figure, but it would make too serious an inroad
into my trading capital, and I declined his friendly assistance. My
wife was the only person whom I took into confidence in buying the
scrip, and I even had her secrete it in the bottom of a trunk, with
strict admonitions never to mention it unless it became of value. It
was not taxable, the public domain was bountiful, and I was young
enough man those days to bide my time.

The winter proved a severe one in Kansas. Nearly every drover who
wintered his cattle in the north met with almost complete loss. The
previous summer had been too wet for cattle to do well, and they
had gone into winter thin in flesh. Instead of curing like hay, the
buffalo grass had rotted from excessive rains, losing its nutritive
qualities, and this resulted in serious loss among all range cattle.
The result was financial ruin to many drovers, and even augured a
lighter drive north the coming spring. Early in the winter I bought
two brands of cattle in Erath County, paying half cash and getting six
months' time on the remainder. Both brands occupied the same range,
and when we gathered them in the early spring, they counted out a
few over six thousand animals. These two contingents were extra good
cattle, costing me five dollars a head, counting yearlings up, and
from them I selected two thousand steer cattle for the trail. The
mixed stuff was again sent to my Clear Fork ranch, and the steers went
into a neighborhood herd intended for the Kansas market. But when the
latter was all ready to start, such discouraging reports came down
from the north that my friends weakened, and I bought their cattle
outright.

My reputation as a good trader was my capital. I had the necessary
horses, and, straining my credit, the herd started thirty-one hundred
strong. The usual incidents of flood and storm, of begging Indians
and caravans like ourselves, formed the chronicle of the trip. Before
arriving at the Kansas line we were met by solicitors of rival towns,
each urging the advantages of their respective markets for our cattle.
The summer before a small business had sprung up at Newton, Kansas, it
being then the terminal of the Santa Fe Railway. And although Newton
lasted as a trail town but a single summer, its reputation for
bloodshed and riotous disorder stands notoriously alone among its
rivals. In the mean time the Santa Fe had been extended to Wichita on
the Arkansas River, and its representatives were now bidding for our
patronage. Abilene was abandoned, yet a rival to Wichita had sprung up
at Ellsworth, some sixty-five miles west of the former market, on the
Kansas Pacific Railway. The railroads were competing for the cattle
traffic, each one advertising its superior advantages to drovers,
shippers, and feeders. I was impartial, but as Wichita was fully one
hundred miles the nearest, my cattle were turned for that point.

Wichita was a frontier village of about two thousand inhabitants. We
found a convenient camp northwest of town, and went into permanent
quarters to await the opening of the market. Within a few weeks
a light drive was assured, and prices opened firm. Fully a
quarter-million less cattle would reach the markets within the State
that year, and buyers became active in securing their needed supply.
Early in July I sold the last of my herd and started my outfit home,
remaining behind to await the arrival of my brother. The trip was
successful; the purchased cattle had afforded me a nice profit, while
the steers from the two brands had more than paid for the mixed stuff
left at home on the ranch. Meanwhile I renewed old acquaintances among
drovers and dealers, Major Mabry among the former. In a confidential
mood I confessed to him that I had bought, on the recent decline, one
hundred certificates of land scrip, when he surprised me by saying
that there had been a later decline to sixteen dollars a section. I
was unnerved for an instant, but Major Mabry agreed with me that to a
man who wanted the land the price was certainly cheap enough,--two
and a half cents an acre. I pondered over the matter, and as my nerve
returned I sent my merchant friend at Austin a draft and authorized
him to buy me two hundred sections more of land scrip. I was actually
nettled to think that my judgment was so short-sighted as to buy
anything that would depreciate in value.

My brother arrived and reported splendid success in feeding Colorado
cattle. He was anxious to have me join forces with him and corn-feed
an increased number of beeves the coming winter on his Missouri farm.
My judgment hardly approved of the venture, but when he urged a
promised visit of our parents to his home, I consented and agreed
to furnish the cattle. He also encouraged me to bring as many as my
capital would admit of, assuring me that I would find a ready sale for
any surplus among his neighbors. My brother returned to Missouri, and
I took the train for Ellsworth, where I bought a carload of picked
cow-horses, shipping them to Kit Carson, Colorado. From there I
drifted into the Fountain valley at the base of the mountains, where
I made a trade for seven hundred native steers, three and four years
old. They were fine cattle, nearly all reds and roans. While I was
gathering them a number of amusing incidents occurred. The round-ups
carried us down on to the main Arkansas River, and in passing Pueblo
we discovered a number of range cattle impounded in the town. I cannot
give it as a fact, but the supposition among the cowmen was that the
object of the officials was to raise some revenue by distressing the
cattle. The result was that an outfit of men rode into the village
during the night, tore down the pound, and turned the cattle back on
the prairie. The prime movers in the raid were suspected, and the next
evening when a number of us rode into town an attempt was made to
arrest us, resulting in a fight, in which an officer was killed and
two cowboys wounded. The citizens rallied to the support of the
officers, and about thirty range men, including myself, were arrested
and thrown into jail. We sent for a lawyer, and the following morning
the majority of us were acquitted. Some three or four of the boys were
held for trial, bonds being furnished by the best men in the town, and
that night a party of cowboys reentered the village, carried away the
two wounded men and spirited them out of the country.

Pueblo at that time was a unique town. Live-stock interests were its
main support, and I distinctly remember Gann's outfitting store. At
night one could find anywhere from ten to thirty cowboys sleeping on
the counters, the proprietor turning the keys over to them at closing
time, not knowing one in ten, and sleeping at his own residence. The
same custom prevailed at Gallup the saddler's, never an article being
missed from either establishment, and both men amassing fortunes out
of the cattle trade in subsequent years. The range man's patronage had
its peculiarities; the firm of Wright, Beverly & Co. of Dodge City,
Kansas, accumulated seven thousand odd vests during the trail days.
When a cow-puncher bought a new suit he had no use for an unnecessary
garment like a vest and left it behind. It was restored to the stock,
where it can yet be found.

Early in August the herd was completed. I accepted seven hundred and
twenty steers, investing every cent of spare money, reserving only
sufficient to pay my expenses en route. It was my intention to drive
the cattle through to Missouri, the distance being a trifle less than
six hundred miles or a matter of six weeks' travel. Four men were
secured, a horse was packed with provisions and blankets, and we
started down the Arkansas River. For the first few days I did very
little but build air castles. I pictured myself driving herds from
Texas in the spring, reinvesting the proceeds in better grades of
cattle and feeding them corn in the older States, selling in time to
again buy and come up the trail. I even planned to send for my wife
and baby, and looked forward to a happy reunion with my parents during
the coming winter, with not a cloud in my roseate sky. But there were
breakers ahead.

An old military trail ran southeast from Fort Larned to other posts in
the Indian Territory. Over this government road had come a number of
herds of Texas cattle, all of them under contract, which, in reaching
their destination, had avoided the markets of Wichita and Ellsworth.
I crossed their trail with my Colorado natives,--the through cattle
having passed a month or more before,--never dreaming of any danger.
Ten days afterward I noticed a number of my steers were ailing; their
ears drooped, they refused to eat, and fell to the rear as we grazed
forward. The next morning there were forty head unable to leave the
bed-ground, and by noon a number of them had died. I had heard of
Texas fever, but always treated it as more or less a myth, and now
it held my little herd of natives in its toils. By this time we had
reached some settlement on the Cottonwood, and the pioneer settlers in
Kansas arose in arms and quarantined me. No one knew what the trouble
was, yet the cattle began dying like sheep; I was perfectly helpless,
not knowing which way to turn or what to do. Quarantine was
unnecessary, as within a few days half the cattle were sick, and it
was all we could do to move away from the stench of the dead ones.

A veterinary was sent for, who pronounced it Texas fever. I had
previously cut open a number of dead animals, and found the contents
of their stomachs and manifolds so dry that they would flash and burn
like powder. The fever had dried up their very internals. In the hope
of administering a purgative, I bought whole fields of green corn,
and turned the sick and dying cattle into them. I bought oils by the
barrel, my men and myself worked night and day, inwardly drenching
affected animals, yet we were unable to stay the ravages of death.
Once the cause of the trouble was located,--crossing ground over
which Texas cattle had passed,--the neighbors became friendly, and
sympathized with me. I gave them permission to take the fallen hides,
and in return received many kindnesses where a few days before I had
been confronted by shotguns. This was my first experience with Texas
fever, and the lessons that I learned then and afterward make me
skeptical of all theories regarding the transmission of the germ.

The story of the loss of my Colorado herd is a ghastly one. This fever
is sometimes called splenic, and in the present case, where animals
lingered a week or ten days, while yet alive, their skins frequently
cracked along the spine until one could have laid two fingers in the
opening. The whole herd was stricken, less than half a dozen animals
escaping attack, scores dying within three days, the majority
lingering a week or more. In spite of our every effort to save them,
as many as one hundred died in a single day. I stayed with them for
six weeks, or until the fever had run through the herd, spent my last
available dollar in an effort to save the dumb beasts, and, having my
hopes frustrated, sold the remnant of twenty-six head for five dollars
apiece. I question if they were worth the money, as three fourths of
them were fever-burnt and would barely survive a winter, the only
animals of value being some half dozen which had escaped the general
plague. I gave each of my men two horses apiece, and divided my money
with them, and they started back to Colorado, while I turned homeward
a wiser but poorer man. Whereas I had left Wichita three months
before with over sixteen thousand dollars clear cash, I returned with
eighteen saddle horses and not as many dollars in money.

My air-castles had fallen. Troubles never come singly, and for the
last two weeks, while working with the dying cattle, I had suffered
with chills and fever. The summer had been an unusually wet one,
vegetation had grown up rankly in the valley of the Arkansas, and
after the first few frosts the very atmosphere reeked with malaria.
I had been sleeping on the ground along the river for over a month,
drinking impure water from the creeks, and I fell an easy victim to
the prevailing miasma. Nearly all the Texas drovers had gone home,
but, luckily for me, Jim Daugherty had an outfit yet at Wichita and
invited me to his wagon. It might be a week or ten days before he
would start homeward, as he was holding a herd of cows, sold to an
Indian contractor, who was to receive the same within two weeks. In
the interim of waiting, still suffering from fever and ague, I visited
around among the few other cow-camps scattered up and down the river.
At one of these I met a stranger, a quiet little man, who also had
been under the weather from malaria, but was then recovering. He took
an interest in my case and gave me some medicine to break the chills,
and we visited back and forth. I soon learned that he had come down
with some of his neighbors from Council Grove; that they expected
to buy cattle, and that he was banker for the party. He was much
interested in everything pertaining to Texas; and when I had given him
an idea of the cheapness of lands and live stock in my adopted State,
he expressed himself as anxious to engage in trailing cattle north. A
great many Texas cattle had been matured in his home county, and he
thoroughly understood the advantages of developing southern steers in
a northern climate. Many of his neighbors had made small fortunes
in buying young stock at Abilene, holding them a year or two, and
shipping them to market as fat cattle.

The party bought six hundred two-year-old steers, and my new-found
friend, the banker, invited me to assist in the receiving. My
knowledge of range cattle was a decided advantage to the buyers, who
no doubt were good farmers, yet were sadly handicapped when given pick
and choice from a Texas herd and confined to ages. I cut, counted, and
received the steers, my work giving such satisfaction that the party
offered to pay me for my services. It was but a neighborly act,
unworthy of recompense, yet I won the lasting regard of the banker
in protecting the interests of his customers. The upshot of the
acquaintance was that we met in town that evening and had a few drinks
together. Neither one ever made any inquiry of the other's past
or antecedents, both seeming to be satisfied with a soldier's
acquaintance. At the final parting, I gave him my name and address and
invited him to visit me, promising that we would buy a herd of cattle
together and drive them up the trail the following spring. He accepted
the invitation with a hearty grasp of the hand, and the simple promise
"I'll come." Those words were the beginning of a partnership which
lasted eighteen years, and a friendship that death alone will
terminate.

The Indian contractor returned on time, and the next day I started
home with Daugherty's outfit. And on the way, as if I were pursued by
some unrelenting Nemesis, two of my horses, with others, were stolen
by the Indians one night when we were encamped near Red River. We
trailed them westward nearly fifty miles, but, on being satisfied they
were traveling night and day, turned back and continued our journey. I
reached home with sixteen horses, which for years afterwards, among
my hands and neighbors, were pointed out as Anthony's thousand-dollar
cow-ponies. There is no denying the fact that I keenly felt the
loss of my money, as it crippled me in my business, while my ranch
expenses, amounting to over one thousand dollars, were unpaid. I was
rich in unsalable cattle, owned a thirty-two-thousand-acre ranch,
saddle horses galore, and was in debt. My wife's trunk was half full
of land scrip, and to have admitted the fact would only have invited
ridicule. But my tuition was paid, and all I asked was a chance, for I
knew the ropes in handling range cattle. Yet this was the second time
that I had lost my money and I began to doubt myself. "You stick to
cows," said Charlie Goodnight to me that winter, "and they'll bring
you out on top some day. I thought I saw something in you when you
first went to work for Loving and me. Reed, if you'll just imbibe a
little caution with your energy, you'll make a fortune out of cattle
yet."




CHAPTER X

THE PANIC OF '73


I have never forgotten those encouraging words of my first employer.
Friends tided my finances over, and letters passed between my banker
friend and myself, resulting in an appointment to meet him at Fort
Worth early in February. There was no direct railroad at the time, the
route being by St. Louis and Texarkana, with a long trip by stage to
the meeting point. No definite agreement existed between us; he was
simply paying me a visit, with the view of looking into the cattle
trade then existing between our respective States. There was no
obligation whatever, yet I had hopes of interesting him sufficiently
to join issues with me in driving a herd of cattle. I wish I could
describe the actual feelings of a man who has had money and lost
it. Never in my life did such opportunities present themselves for
investment as were tendered to me that winter. No less than half a
dozen brands of cattle were offered to me at the former terms of half
cash and the balance to suit my own convenience. But I lacked the
means to even provision a wagon for a month's work, and I was
compelled to turn my back on all bargains, many of which were
duplicates of my former successes. I was humbled to the very dust; I
bowed my neck to the heel of circumstances, and looked forward to the
coming of my casual acquaintance.

I have read a few essays on the relation of money to a community. None
of our family were ever given to theorizing, yet I know how it feels
to be moneyless, my experience with Texas fever affording me a
post-graduate course. Born with a restless energy, I have lived in the
pit of despair for the want of money, and again, with the use of it,
have bent a legislature to my will and wish. All of which is foreign
to my tale, and I hasten on. During the first week in February I drove
in to Fort Worth to await the arrival of my friend, Calvin Hunter,
banker and stockman of Council Grove, Kansas. Several letters were
awaiting me in the town, notifying me of his progress, and in due time
he arrived and was welcomed. The next morning we started, driving a
good span of mules to a buckboard, expecting to cover the distance to
the Brazos in two days. There were several ranches at which we could
touch, en route, but we loitered along, making wide detours in order
to drive through cattle, not a feature of the country escaping the
attention of my quiet little companion. The soil, the native grasses,
the natural waters, the general topography of the country, rich in
its primal beauty, furnished a panorama to the eye both pleasing and
exhilarating. But the main interest centred in the cattle, thousands
of which were always in sight, lingering along the watercourses or
grazing at random.

We reached the Edwards ranch early the second evening. In the two
days' travel, possibly twenty thousand cattle came under our immediate
observation. All the country was an open range, brands intermingling,
all ages and conditions, running from a sullen bull to seven-year-old
beeves, or from a yearling heifer to the grandmother of younger
generations. My anxiety to show the country and its cattle met a
hearty second in Mr. Hunter, and abandoning the buckboard, we took
horses and rode up the Brazos River as far as old Fort Belknap. All
cattle were wintering strong. Turning south, we struck the Clear Fork
above my range and spent a night at the ranch, where my men had built
a second cabin, connecting the two by a hallway. After riding through
my stock for two days, we turned back for the Brazos. My ranch hands
had branded thirty-one hundred calves the fall before, and while
riding over the range I was delighted to see so many young steers in
my different brands. But our jaunt had only whetted the appetite of
my guest to see more of the country, and without any waste of time we
started south with the buckboard, going as far as Comanche County.
Every day's travel brought us in contact with cattle for sale; the
prices were an incentive, but we turned east and came back up the
valley of the Brazos. I offered to continue our sightseeing, but
my guest pleaded for a few days' time until he could hear from his
banking associates. I needed a partner and needed one badly, and
was determined to interest Mr. Hunter if it took a whole month. And
thereby hangs a tale.

The native Texan is not distinguished for energy or ambition. His
success in cattle is largely due to the fact that nearly all the work
can be done on horseback. Yet in that particular field he stands at
the head of his class; for whether in Montana or his own sunny Texas,
when it comes to handling cattle, from reading brands to cutting a
trainload of beeves, he is without a peer. During the palmy days of
the Cherokee Strip, a Texan invited Captain Stone, a Kansas City man,
to visit his ranch in Tom Green County and put up a herd of steers to
be driven to Stone's beef ranch in the Cherokee Outlet. The invitation
was accepted, and on the arrival of the Kansas City man at the Texan's
ranch, host and guest indulged in a friendly visit of several days'
duration. It was the northern cowman's first visit to the Lone Star
State, and he naturally felt impatient to see the cattle which he
expected to buy. But the host made no movement to show the stock
until patience ceased to be a virtue, when Captain Stone moved an
adjournment of the social session and politely asked to be shown a
sample of the country's cattle. The two cowmen were fast friends, and
no offense was intended or taken; but the host assured his guest
there was no hurry, offering to get up horses and show the stock
the following day. Captain Stone yielded, and the next morning they
started, but within a few miles met a neighbor, when all three
dismounted in the shade of a tree. Commonplace chat of the country
occupied the attention of the two Texans until hunger or some
other warning caused one of them to look at his watch, when it was
discovered to be three o'clock in the afternoon. It was then too late
in the day to make an extensive ride, and the ranchman invited his
neighbor and guest to return to the ranch for the night. Another day
was wasted in entertaining the neighbor, the northern cowman, in the
meantime, impatient and walking on nettles until a second start was
made to see the cattle. It was a foggy morning, and they started on
a different route from that previously taken, the visiting ranchman
going along. Unnoticed, a pack of hounds followed the trio of
horsemen, and before the fog lifted a cougar trail was struck and the
dogs opened in a brilliant chorus. The two Texans put spurs to their
horses in following the pack, the cattle buyer of necessity joining
in, the chase leading into some hills, from which they returned after
darkness, having never seen a cow during the day. One trivial incident
after another interfered with seeing the cattle for ten days, when the
guest took his host aside and kindly told him that he must be shown
the cattle or he would go home.

"You're not in a hurry, are you, captain?" innocently asked the Texan.
"All right, then; no trouble to show the cattle. Yes, they run right
around home here within twenty-five miles of the ranch. Show you a
sample of the stock within an hour's ride. You can just bet that old
Tom Green County has got the steers! Sugar, if I'd a-known that you
was in a hurry, I could have shown you the cattle the next morning
after you come. Captain, you ought to know me well enough by this time
to speak your little piece without any prelude. You Yankees are so
restless and impatient that I seriously doubt if you get all the
comfort and enjoyment out of life that's coming to you. Make haste,
some of you boys, and bring in a remuda; Captain Stone and I are going
to ride over on the Middle Fork this morning. Make haste, now; we're
in a hurry."

In due time I suppose I drifted into the languorous ways of the Texan;
but on the occasion of Mr. Hunter's first visit I was in the need of a
moneyed partner, and accordingly danced attendance. Once communication
was opened with his Northern associates, we made several short rides
into adjoining counties, never being gone over two or three days.
When we had looked at cattle to his satisfaction, he surprised me
by offering to put fifty thousand dollars into young steers for the
Kansas trade. I never fainted in my life, but his proposition stunned
me for an instant, or until I could get my bearings. The upshot of
the proposal was that we entered into an agreement whereby I was to
purchase and handle the cattle, and he was to make himself useful
in selling and placing the stock in his State. A silent partner was
furnishing an equal portion of the means, and I was to have a third
of the net profits. Within a week after this agreement was perfected,
things were moving. I had the horses and wagons, men were plentiful,
and two outfits were engaged. Early in March a contract was let in
Parker County for thirty-one hundred two-year-old steers, and another
in Young for fourteen hundred threes, the latter to be delivered at my
ranch. George Edwards was to have the younger cattle, and he and Mr.
Hunter received the same, after which the latter hurried west, fully
ninety miles, to settle for those bought for delivery on the Clear
Fork. In the mean time my ranch outfit had gathered all our steer
cattle two years old and over, having nearly twenty-five hundred head
under herd on my arrival to receive the three-year-olds. This amount
would make an unwieldy herd, and I culled back all short-aged twos and
thin steers until my individual contingent numbered even two thousand.
The contracted steers came in on time, fully up to the specifications,
and my herd was ready to start on the appointed day.

Every dollar of the fifty thousand was invested in cattle, save enough
to provision the wagons en route. My ranch outfit, with the exception
of two men and ten horses, was pressed into trail work as a matter of
economy, for I was determined to make some money for my partners. Both
herds were to meet and cross at Red River Station. The season was
favorable, and everything augured for a prosperous summer. At the
very last moment a cloud arose between Mr. Hunter and me, but happily
passed without a storm. The night before the second herd started, he
and I sat up until a late hour, arranging our affairs, as it was not
his intention to accompany the herds overland. After all business
matters were settled, lounging around a camp-fire, we grew
reminiscent, when the fact developed that my quiet little partner had
served in the Union army, and with the rank of major. I always enjoy a
joke, even on myself, but I flashed hot and cold on this confession.
What! Reed Anthony forming a partnership with a Yankee major? It
seemed as though I had. Fortunately I controlled myself, and under the
excuse of starting the herd at daybreak, I excused myself and sought
my blankets. But not to sleep. On the one hand, in the stillness
of the night and across the years, came the accusing voices of old
comrades. My very wounds seemed to reopen and curse me. Did my
sufferings after Pittsburg Landing mean nothing? A vision of my dear
old mother in Virginia, welcoming me, the only one of her three sons
who returned from the war, arraigned me sorely. And yet, on the other
hand, this man was my guest. On my invitation he had eaten my salt.
For mutual benefit we had entered into a partnership, and I expected
to profit from the investment of his money. More important, he had not
deceived me nor concealed anything; neither did he know that I had
served in the Confederate army. The man was honest. I was anxious to
do right. Soldiers are generous to a foe. While he lay asleep in my
camp, I reviewed the situation carefully, and judged him blameless.
The next morning, and ever afterward, I addressed him by his military
title. Nearly a year passed before Major Hunter knew that he and his
Texas partner had served in the civil war under different flags.

My partner returned to the Edwards ranch and was sent in to Fort
Worth, where he took stage and train for home. The straight
two-year-old herd needed road-branding, as they were accepted in a
score or more brands, which delayed them in starting. Major Hunter
expected to sell to farmers, to whom brands were offensive, and was
therefore opposed to more branding than was absolutely necessary. In
order to overcome this objection, I tally-marked all outside cattle
which went into my herd by sawing from each steer about two inches
from the right horn. As fast as the cattle were received this work was
easily done in a chute, while in case of any loss by stampede the
mark would last for years. The grass was well forward when both herds
started, but on arriving at Red River no less than half a dozen herds
were waterbound, one of which was George Edwards's. A delay of three
days occurred, during which two other herds arrived, when the river
fell, permitting us to cross. I took the lead thereafter, the second
herd half a day to the rear, with the almost weekly incident of being
waterbound by intervening rivers. But as we moved northward the floods
seemed lighter, and on our arrival at Wichita the weather settled into
well-ordered summer.

I secured my camp of the year before. Major Hunter came down by train,
and within a week after our arrival my outfit was settled with and
sent home. It was customary to allow a man half wages returning, my
partner approving and paying the men, also taking charge of all the
expense accounts. Everything was kept as straight as a bank, and with
one outfit holding both herds separate, expenses were reduced to a
minimum. Major Hunter was back and forth, between his home town and
Wichita, and on nearly every occasion brought along buyers, effecting
sales at extra good prices. Cattle paper was considered gilt-edge
security among financial men, and we sold to worthy parties a great
many cattle on credit, the home bank with which my partners were
associated taking the notes at their face. Matters rocked along, we
sold when we had an opportunity, and early in August the remnant of
each herd was thrown together and half the remaining outfit sent home.
A drive of fully half a million cattle had reached Kansas that
year, the greater portion of which had centred at Wichita. We were
persistent in selling, and, having strong local connections, had
sold out all our cattle long before the financial panic of '73 even
started. There was a profitable business, however, in buying herds and
selling again in small quantities to farmers and stockmen. My partners
were anxious to have me remain to the end of the season, doing the
buying, maintaining the camp, and holding any stock on hand. In
rummaging through the old musty account-books, I find that we handled
nearly seven thousand head besides our own drive, fifteen hundred
being the most we ever had on hand at any one time.

My active partner proved a shrewd man in business, and in spite of
the past our friendship broadened and strengthened. Weeks before the
financial crash reached us he knew of its coming, and our house was
set in order. When the panic struck the West we did not own a hoof of
cattle, while the horses on hand were mine and not for sale; and the
firm of Hunter, Anthony & Co. rode the gale like a seaworthy ship. The
panic reached Wichita with over half the drive of that year unsold.
The local banks began calling in money advanced to drovers, buyers
deserted the market, and prices went down with a crash. Shipments of
the best through cattle failed to realize more than sufficient to pay
commission charges and freight. Ruin stared in the face every Texan
drover whose cattle were unsold. Only a few herds were under contract
for fall delivery to Indian and army contractors. We had run from the
approaching storm in the nick of time, even settling with and sending
my outfit home before the financial cyclone reached the prairies
of Kansas. My last trade before the panic struck was an individual
account, my innate weakness for an abundance of saddle horses
asserting itself in buying ninety head and sending them home with my
men.

I now began to see the advantages of shrewd and far-seeing business
associates. When the crash came, scarce a dozen drovers had sold out,
while of those holding cattle at Wichita nearly every one had locally
borrowed money or owed at home for their herds. When the banks,
panic-stricken themselves, began calling in short-time loans, their
frenzy paralyzed the market, many cattle being sacrificed at forced
sale and with scarce a buyer. In the depreciation of values from the
prices which prevailed in the early summer, the losses to the Texas
drovers, caused by the panic, would amount to several million dollars.
I came out of the general wreck and ruin untouched, though personally
claiming no credit, as that must be given my partners. The year
before, when every other drover went home prosperous and happy, I
returned "broke," while now the situation was reversed.

I spent a week at Council Grove, visiting with my business associates.
After a settlement of the year's business, I was anxious to return
home, having agreed to drive cattle the next year on the same terms
and conditions. My partners gave me a cash settlement, and outside
of my individual cattle, I cleared over ten thousand dollars on my
summer's work. Major Hunter, however, had an idea of reentering the
market,--with the first symptom of improvement in the financial
horizon in the East,--and I was detained. The proposition of buying
a herd of cattle and wintering them on the range had been fully
discussed between us, and prices were certainly an incentive to make
the venture. In an ordinary open winter, stock subsisted on the range
all over western Kansas, especially when a dry fall had matured and
cured the buffalo-grass like hay. The range was all one could wish,
and Major Hunter and I accordingly dropped down to Wichita to look the
situation over. We arrived in the midst of the panic and found matters
in a deplorable condition. Drovers besought and even begged us to make
an offer on their herds, while the prevailing prices of a month before
had declined over half. Major Hunter and I agreed that at present
figures, even if half the cattle were lost by a severe winter, there
would still be money in the venture. Through financial connections
East my partners knew of the first signs of improvement in the
money-centres of the country. As I recall the circumstances, the panic
began in the East about the middle of September, and it was the latter
part of October before confidence was restored, or there was any
noticeable change for the better in the monetary situation. But when
this came, it found us busy buying saddle horses and cattle. The great
bulk of the unsold stock consisted of cows, heifers, and young steers
unfit for beef. My partners contended that a three-year-old steer
ought to winter anywhere a buffalo could, provided he had the flesh
and strength to withstand the rigors of the climate. I had no
opinions, except what other cowmen had told me, but was willing to
take the chances where there was a reasonable hope of success.

The first move was to buy an outfit of good horses. This was done by
selecting from half a dozen remudas, a trail wagon was picked up, and
a complement of men secured. Once it was known that we were in the
market for cattle, competition was brisk, the sellers bidding against
each other and fixing the prices at which we accepted the stock. None
but three-year-old steers were taken, and in a single day we closed
trades on five thousand head. I received the cattle, confining my
selections to five road and ten single-ranch brands, as it was not our
intention to rebrand so late in the season. There was nothing to do
but cut, count, and accept, and on the evening of the third day the
herd was all ready to start for its winter range. The wagon had been
well provisioned, and we started southwest, expecting to go into
winter quarters on the first good range encountered. I had taken a
third interest in the herd, paying one sixth of its purchase price,
the balance being carried for me by my partners. Major Hunter
accompanied us, the herd being altogether too large and unwieldy
to handle well, but we grazed it forward with a front a mile wide.
Delightful fall weather favored the cattle, and on the tenth day we
reached the Medicine River, where, by the unwritten law of squatter's
rights, we preempted ten miles of its virgin valley. The country was
fairly carpeted with well-cured buffalo-grass; on the north and west
was a range of sand-dunes, while on the south the country was broken
by deep coulees, affording splendid shelter in case of blizzards or
wintry storms.

A dugout was built on either end of the range. Major Hunter took the
wagon and team and went to the nearest settlement, returning with
a load of corn, having contracted for the delivery of five hundred
bushels more. Meanwhile I was busy locating the cattle, scattering
them sparsely over the surrounding country, cutting them into bunches
of not more than ten to twenty head. Corrals and cosy shelters were
built for a few horses, comfortable quarters for the men, and we
settled down for the winter with everything snug and secure. By the
first of December the force was reduced to four men at each camp, all
of whom were experienced in holding cattle in the winter. Lines giving
ample room to our cattle were established, which were to be ridden
both evening and morning in any and all weather. Two Texans, both
experts as trailers, were detailed to trail down any cattle which left
the boundaries of the range. The weather continued fine, and with the
camps well provisioned, the major and I returned to the railroad and
took train for Council Grove. I was impatient to go home, and took the
most direct route then available. Railroads were just beginning to
enter the West, and one had recently been completed across the eastern
portion of the Indian Territory, its destination being south of Red
River. With nothing but the clothes on my back and a saddle, I
started home, and within twenty-four hours arrived at Denison, Texas.
Connecting stages carried me to Fort Worth, where I bought a saddle
horse, and the next evening I was playing with the babies at the home
ranch. It had been an active summer with me, but success had amply
rewarded my labors, while every cloud had disappeared and the future
was rich in promise.




CHAPTER XI

A PROSPEROUS YEAR


An open winter favored the cattle on the Medicine River. My partners
in Kansas wrote me encouragingly, and plans were outlined for
increasing our business for the coming summer. There was no activity
in live stock during the winter in Texas, and there would be no
trouble in putting up herds at prevailing prices of the spring before.
I spent an inactive winter, riding back and forth to my ranch, hunting
with hounds, and killing an occasional deer. While visiting at Council
Grove the fall before, Major Hunter explained to our silent partner
the cheapness of Texas lands. Neither one of my associates cared to
scatter their interests beyond the boundaries of their own State, yet
both urged me to acquire every acre of cheap land that my means would
permit. They both recited the history and growth in value of the lands
surrounding The Grove, telling me how cheaply they could have bought
the same ten years before,--at the government price of a dollar and a
quarter an acre,--and that already there had been an advance of four
to five hundred per cent. They urged me to buy scrip and locate land,
assuring me that it was only a question of time until the people
of Texas would arise in their might and throw off the yoke of
Reconstruction.

At home general opinion was just the reverse. No one cared for more
land than a homestead or for immediate use. No locations had been made
adjoining my ranch on the Clear Fork, and it began to look as if I had
more land than I needed. Yet I had confidence enough in the advice of
my partners to reopen negotiations with my merchant friend at Austin
for the purchase of more land scrip. The panic of the fall before had
scarcely affected the frontier of Texas, and was felt in only a few
towns of any prominence in the State. There had been no money in
circulation since the war, and a financial stringency elsewhere made
little difference among the local people. True, the Kansas cattle
market had sent a little money home, but a bad winter with drovers
holding cattle in the North, followed by a panic, had bankrupted
nearly every cowman, many of them with heavy liabilities in Texas.
There were very few banks in the State, and what little money there
was among the people was generally hoarded to await the dawn of a
brighter day.

My wife tells a story about her father, which shows similar conditions