Texas Cowboy; Or Fifteen Years on the Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony — Chapters 16-18: My first experience roping a buffalo, An exciting trip after thieves, Seven weeks among Indians

MY FIRST EXPERIENCE ROPING A BUFFALO.

About the sixth day out from Dodge we crossed the Cimeron and that evening I had a little excitement chasing a herd of buffaloes.

After crossing the river about noon, we drove out to the divide, five or six miles and made a "dry" camp.

It was my evening to lay in camp, or do anything else I wished.

Therefore concluded I would saddle my little indian mare--one I had traded for from an indian--and take a hunt.

About the time I was nearly ready to go Mr. Bates, seeing some of the cattle slipping off into a bunch of sand hills which were near the herd, asked me if I wouldn't ride out and turn them back.

I went, leaving my pistol and gun in camp, thinking of course that I would be back in a few minutes.

But instead of that I didn't get back until after dinner the next day.

Just as I was starting back to camp, after turning the cattle, a large herd of buffaloes dashed by camp headed west.

The boys all ran out with their guns and began firing.

I became excited and putting spurs to my pony, struck out to overtake and kill a few of them, forgetting that I didn't have anything to shoot with.

As they had over a mile the start it wasn't an easy matter to overtake them.

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon and terribly hot; which of course cut off my pony's wind and checked her speed to a great extent.

About sundown I overtook them.

Their tongues were sticking out a yard.

I

took down my rope from the saddle-horn, having just missed my shooting irons a few minutes before, and threw it onto a yearling heifer.

When the rope tightened the yearling began to bleat and its mammy broke back out of the herd and took after me.

I tried to turn the rope loose so as to get out of the way, but couldn't, as it was drawn very tight around the saddle-horn.

To my great delight, after raking some of the surplus hair from my pony's hind quarters, she turned and struck out after the still fleeing herd.

Now the question arose in my mind, "how are you going to kill your buffalo?"

Break her neck was the only way I could think of; after trying it several times by running "against" the rope at full speed, I gave it up as a failure.

I then concluded to cut the rope and let her go, so getting out my old frog-sticker--an old pocket knife I had picked up a few days before and which I used to clean my pipe--I went to work trying to open the little blade it being the only one that would cut hot butter.

The big blade was open when I found it, consequently it was nothing but a sheet of rust.

The little blade had become rusted considerably, which made it hard to open.

Previous to that I always used my bowie knife, which at that time was hanging to my pistol belt, in camp, to open it with.

After working a few minutes I gave up the notion of opening the little blade and went to work sawing at the rope with the big one.

But I soon gave that up also, as I could have made just as much headway by cutting with my finger.

At last I dismounted and went to him, or at least her, with nothing but my muscle for a weapon.

I finally managed to get her down by getting one hand fastened to her under jaw and the other hold of one horn and then twisting her neck.

As some of you might wonder why I had so much trouble with this little animal, when it is a known fact that one man by himself can tie down the largest domestic bull that ever lived, I will say that the difference between a buffalo and a domestic bull is, that the latter when you throw him hard against the ground two or three times, will lie still long enough to give you a chance to jump aboard of him, while the former will raise to his feet, instantly, just as long as there's a bit of life left.

After getting her tied down with my "sash," a silk concern that I kept my breeches up with, I went to work opening the little blade of my knife.

I broke the big one off and then used it for a pry to open the other with.

When I got her throat cut I concluded it a good idea to take the hide along, to show the boys that I didn't have my run for nothing, so went to work skinning, which I found to be a tedious job with such a small knife-blade.

It was pitch dark when I started towards camp with the hide and a small chunk of meat tied behind my saddle.

After riding east about a mile, I abandoned the idea of going to camp and turned south facing the cool breeze in hopes of finding water, my pony and I both being nearly dead for a drink.

It was at least twenty miles to camp over a level, dry plain, therefore I imagined it an impossibility to go that distance without water.

As the streams all lay east and west in that country, I knew by going south I was bound to strike one sooner or later.

About midnight I began to get sleepy, so, pulling the bridle off my pony so she could graze, I spread the buffalo hide down, hair up, and after wrapping the end of the rope, that my pony was fastened to around my body once or twice so she couldn't get loose without me knowing it, fell asleep.

I hadn't slept long when I awoke, covered from head to foot with ants.

The fresh hide had attracted them.

After freeing myself of most of the little pests I continued my journey in search of water.

About three o'clock in the morning I lay down again, but this time left the hide on my saddle.

I think I must have been asleep about an hour when all at once my pony gave a tremendous snort and struck out at full speed, dragging me after her.

You see I had wrapped the rope around my body as before and it held me fast some way or another; I suppose by getting tangled.

Luckily for me though it came loose after dragging me about a hundred yards.

You can imagine my feelings on gaining my feet, and finding myself standing on the broad prairie afoot.

I felt just like a little boy does when he lets a bird slip out of his hand accidently--that is--exceedingly foolish.

The earth was still shaking and I could hear a roaring noise like that of distant thunder.

A large herd of buffaloes had just passed.

While standing scratching my head a faint noise greeted my ear; it was my pony snorting.

A tramp of about three hundred yards brought me to her.

She was shaking as though she had a chill.

I mounted and continued my journey south, determined on not stopping any more that night.

About ten o'clock next morning I struck water on the head of Sharp's creek, a tributary to "Beaver" or head of North Canadian.

When I got to camp--it having been moved south about twenty miles from where I left it--the boys had just eaten dinner and two of them were fixing to go back and hunt me up, thinking some sad misfortune had befallen me.

When we got to Blue Creek, a tributary to South Canadian, camp was located for awhile, until a suitable location could be found for a permanent ranch.

Mr. Bates struck out across the country to the Canadian river, taking me along, to hunt the range--one large enough for at least fifty thousand cattle.

After being out three days we landed in Tascosa, a little mexican town on the Canadian.

There were only two americans there, Howard & Reinheart, who kept the only store in town.

Their stock of goods consisted of three barrels of whisky and half a dozen boxes of soda crackers.

From there we went down the river twenty-five miles where we found a little trading point, consisting of one store and two mexican families.

The store, which was kept by a man named Pitcher, had nothing in it but whisky and tobacco.

His customers were mostly transient buffalo hunters, they being mostly indians and mexicans.

He also made a business of dealing in robes, furs, etc. , which he shipped to Fort Lyons, Colorado, where his partner, an officer in the United States Army lived.

There were three hundred Apache indians camped right across the river from "Cold Springs," as Pitcher called his ranch.

A few miles below where the little store stood Mr. Bates decided on being the center of the "L. X."

range; and right there, Wheeler post-office now stands.

And that same range, which was then black with buffaloes, is now stocked with seventy-five thousand fine blooded cattle, and all fenced in.

So you see time makes changes, even out here in the "western wilds."

CHAPTER XVII. AN EXCITING TRIP AFTER THIEVES.

After arriving on our newly located ranch we counted the cattle and found the herd three hundred head short.

Bill Allen, the boss, struck back to try and find their trail.

He found it leading south from the "rifle pits."

The cattle had stolen out of the herd without anyone finding it out; and of course finding themselves free, they having come from southern Texas, they headed south across the Plains.

Allen came back to camp and taking me and two horses apiece, struck down the river to head them off.

We made our headquarters at Fort Elliott and scoured the country out for a hundred miles square.

We succeeded in getting about two hundred head of them; some had become wild and were mixed up with large herds of buffalo, while others had been taken up by ranchmen around the Fort and the brands disfigured.

We got back to camp after being absent a month.

About the first of October four more herds arrived; three from Dodge and one from Grenada, Colorado, where Bates & Beals formerly had a large ranch.

We then turned them all loose on the river and established "Sign" camps around the entire range, which was about forty miles square.

The camps were stationed from twenty-five to thirty miles apart.

There were two men to the camp and their duty was to see that no cattle drifted outside of the line--on their "ride," which was half way to the next camp on each side, or in plainer words one man would ride south towards the camp in that direction, while his pard would go north until he met the man from the next camp, which would generally be on a hill, as near half way as possible.

If any cattle had crossed over the line during the night they would leave a trail of course, and this the rider would follow up until he overtook them.

He would then bring them back inside of the line; sometimes though they would come out so thick that half a dozen men couldn't keep them back, for instance, during a bad storm.

Under such circumstances he would have to do the best he could until he got a chance to send to the "home ranch" for help.

A young man by the name of John Robinson and myself were put in a Sign camp ten miles south of the river, at the foot of the Staked Plains.

It was the worst camp in the whole business, for three different reasons, the first one being, cattle naturally want to drift south in the winter, and secondly, the cold storms always came from the north, and the third and most objectionable cause was, if any happened to get over the line onto the Staked plains during a bad snow storm they were considered gone, as there were no "breaks" or anything to check them for quite a distance.

For instance, drifting southwest they would have nothing but a level plain to travel over for a distance of three hundred miles to the Pecos river near the old Mexico line.

John and I built a small stone house on the head of "Bonetta" Canyon and had a hog killing time all by ourselves.

Hunting was our delight at first, until it became old.

We always had four or five different kinds of meat in camp.

Buffalo meat was way below par with us, for we could go a few hundred yards from camp any time of day and kill any number of the woolly brutes.

To give you an idea how thick buffaloes were around there that fall will say, at one time when we first located our camp on the Bonetta, there was a solid string of them, from one to three miles wide, going south, which took three days and nights to cross the Canadian river.

And at other times I have seen them so thick on the plains that the country would look black just as far as the eye could reach.

Late that fall we had a change in bosses.

Mr. Allen went home to Corpus Christi, Texas, and a man by the name of Moore came down from Colorado and took his place.

About Christmas we had a little excitement, chasing some mexican thieves, who robbed Mr. Pitcher of everything he had in his little Jim Crow store.

John and I were absent from our camp, six days on this trip.

There were nine of us in the persuing party, headed by Mr. Moore, our boss.

We caught the outfit, which consisted of five men, all well armed and three women, two of them being pretty maidens, on the staked plains, headed for Mexico.

It was on this trip that I swore off getting drunk, and I have stuck to it--with the exception of once and that was over the election of President Cleveland--It happened thus: We rode into Tascosa about an hour after dark, having been in the saddle and on a hot trail all day without food or water.

Supper being ordered we passed off the time waiting, by sampling Howard and Reinheart's bug juice.

Supper was called and the boys all rushed to the table--a few sheepskins spread on the dirt floor.

When about through they missed one of their crowd--a fellow about my size.

On searching far and near he was found lying helplessly drunk under his horse, Whisky-peet--who was tied to a rack in front of the store.

A few glasses of salty water administered by Mr. Moore brought me to my right mind.

Moore then after advising me to remain until morning, not being able to endure an all night ride as he thought, called, "come on, fellers!"

And mounting their tired horses they dashed off at almost full speed.

There I stood leaning against the rack not feeling able to move.

Whisky-peet was rearing and prancing in his great anxiety to follow the crowd.

I finally climbed into the saddle, the pony still tied to the rack.

I had sense enough left to know that I couldn't get on him if loose, in the fix I was in.

Then pulling out my bowie knife I cut the rope and hugged the saddle-horn with both hands.

I overtook and stayed with the crowd all night, but if ever a mortal suffered it was me.

My stomach felt as though it was filled with scorpions, wild cats and lizards.

I swore if God would forgive me for geting on that drunk I would never do so again.

But the promise was broken, as I stated before, when I received the glorious news of Cleveland's election.

After New Year's, Moore took Jack Ryan, Vandozen and myself and went on an exploring expedition south, across the Staked plains, with a view of learning the country.

The first place we struck was Canyon Paladuro, head of Red river.

The whole country over there was full of indians and mexicans.

We laid over two days in one of their camps, watching them lance buffaloes.

From there we went to Mulberry where we put in three or four days hunting.

When we pulled out again our pack-pony was loaded down with fat bear meat.

CHAPTER XVIII. SEVEN WEEKS AMONG INDIANS.

On our arrival back to the ranch, Moore rigged up a scouting outfit to do nothing but drift over the Plains in search of strayed cattle.

The outfit consisted of a well-filled chuck-wagon, a number one good cook, Mr. O.

M.

Johnson, and three warriors, Jack Ryan, Vanduzen and myself.

We had two good horses apiece, that is, all but myself, I had three counting Whisky-peet.

About the sixth day out we struck three thousand Comanche Indians and became pretty badly scared up.

We had camped for the night on the plains, at the forks of Mulberry and Canyon Paladuro; a point from whence could be seen one of the roughest and most picturesque scopes of country in the west.

The next morning Jack Ryan went with the wagon to pilot it across Mulberry Canyon, while "Van" and I branched off down into Canyon Paladuro to look for cattle signs.

We succeeded in finding two little knotty-headed two-year old steers with a bunch of buffalo.

They were almost as wild as their woolly associates, but we managed to get them cut out and headed in the direction the wagon had gone.

About noon, on turning a sharp curve in the canyon, we suddenly came in full view of our wagon surrounded with a couple of thousand red skins, on horse back, and others still pouring down from the hills, on the east.

It was too late to figure on what to do, for they had already seen us, only being about half a mile off.

You see the two wild steers had turned the curve ahead of us and attracted the indians attention in that direction.

We couldn't see anything but the white top of our wagon, on account of the solid mass of reds, hence couldn't tell whether our boys were still among the living or not.

We thought of running once, but finally concluded to go up and take our medicine like little men, in case they were on the war-path.

Leaving Whisky-peet, who was tied behind the wagon, kept me from running more than anything else.

On pushing our way through the mass we found the boys, winchesters in hand, telling the old chiefs where to find plenty of buffalo.

There were three thousand in the band, and they had just come from Ft. Sill, Indian Territory, on a hunting expedition.

They wanted to get where buffaloes were plentiful before locating winter quarters.

From that time on we were among indians all the time.

The Pawnee tribe was the next we came in contact with.

Close to the Indian Territory line we run afoul of the whole Cheyenne tribe.

They were half starved, all the buffalo having drifted south, and their ponies being too poor and weak to follow them up.

We traded them out of lots of blankets, trinkets, etc. For a pint of flour or coffee they would give their whole soul--and body thrown in for good measure.

We soon ran out of chuck too, having swapped it all off to the hungry devils.

We then circled around by Ft. Elliott, and up the Canadian river to the ranch, arriving there with eighteen head of our steers, after an absence of seven weeks.

We only got to remain at the ranch long enough to get a new supply of chuck, etc. , and a fresh lot of horses, as Moore sent us right back to the Plains.

In a south westerly direction this time.

We remained on the Plains scouting around during the rest of the winter, only making short trips to the ranch after fresh horses and grub.

We experienced some tough times too, especially during severe snow storms when our only fuel, "buffalo-chips," would be covered up in the deep snow.

Even after the snow melted off, for several days afterwards, we couldn't get much warmth out of the buffalo-chips, on account of them being wet.

About the first of April, Moore called us in from the Plains to go up the river to Ft. Bascom, New Mexico, on a rounding-up expedition.

We were gone on that trip over a month.

On our arrival back, Moore went right to work gathering up everything on the range in the shape of cattle, so as to "close-herd" them during the summer.

His idea in doing that was to keep them tame.

During the winter they had become almost beyond control.

The range was too large for so few cattle.

And another thing buffalo being so plentiful had a tendency to making them wild.

About the first of June Moore put me in charge of an outfit, which consisted of twenty-five hundred steers, a wagon and cook, four riders, and five horses to the man or rider.

He told me to drift over the Plains wherever I felt like, just so I brought the cattle in fat by the time cold weather set in.

It being an unusually wet summer the scores of basins, or "dry lakes," as we called them, contained an abundance of nice fresh water, therefore we would make a fresh camp every few days.

The grass was also fine, being mostly buffalo-grass and nearly a foot high.

If ever I enjoyed life it was that summer.

No flies or mosquitoes to bother, lots of game and a palmy atmosphere.

Towards the latter part of July about ten thousand head of "through" cattle arrived from southern Texas.

To keep the "wintered" ones from catching the "Texas fever," Mr. Moore put them all on the Plains, leaving the new arrivals on the north side of the river.

There was three herds besides mine.

And I was put in charge of the whole outfit, that is, the four herds; although they were held separate as before, with the regular number of men, horses, etc. to each herd.

I then put one of my men in charge of the herd I had been holding, and from that time on until late in the fall I had nothing to do but ride from one herd to the other and see how they were getting along.

Some times the camps would be twenty miles apart.

I generally counted each bunch once a week, to be certain they were all there.

About the first of October, Moore came out and picked eight hundred of the fattest steers out of the four herds and sent them to Dodge to be shipped to Chicago.

He then took everything to the river, to be turned loose onto the winter range until the next spring.

When the hardest work was over--winter camps established, etc. , I

secured Moore's consent to let me try and overtake the shipping steers, and accompany them to Chicago.

So mounted on Whisky-peet I struck out, accompanied by one of the boys, John Farris.

It was doubtful whether we would overtake the herd before being shipped, as they had already been on the road about fifteen days, long enough to have gotten there.

The night after crossing the Cimeron river we had a little indian scare.

About three o'clock that afternoon we noticed two or three hundred mounted reds, off to one side of the road, marching up a ravine in single file.

Being only a mile off, John proposed to me that we go over and tackle them for something to eat.

We were terribly hungry, as well as thirsty.

I agreed, so we turned and rode towards them.

On discovering us they all bunched up, as though parleying.

We didn't like such maneuvering, being afraid maybe they were on the war-path, so turned and continued our journey along the road, keeping a close watch behind for fear they might conclude to follow us.

We arrived on Crooked Creek, where there was a store and several ranches, just about dark.

On riding up to the store, where we intended stopping all night, we found it vacated, and everything turned up-side down as though the occupants had just left in a terrible hurry.

Hearing some ox bells down the creek we turned in that direction, in hopes of finding something to eat.

About a mile's ride brought us to a ranch where several yoke of oxen stood grazing, near the door.

Finding a sack of corn in a wagon we fed our horses and then burst open the door of the log house, which was locked.

Out jumped a little playful puppy, who had been asleep, his master having locked him up in there, no doubt, in his anxiety to pull for Dodge.

Hanging over the still warm ashes was a pot of nice beef soup which had never been touched.

And in the old box cupboard was a lot of cold biscuits and a jar of nice preserves, besides a jug of molasses, etc. After filling up we struck out for Dodge, still a distance of twenty-five miles.

We arrived there a short while after sun-up next morning; and the first man we met--an old friend by the name of Willingham--informed us of the indian outbreak.

There had been several men killed on Crooked Creek the evening before--hence John and I finding the ranches deserted.

On riding through the streets that morning, crowds of women, some of them crying, seeing we were just in from the South, flocked around us inquiring for their absent ones, fathers, brothers, lovers and sons, some of whom had already been killed, no doubt; there having been hundreds of men killed in the past few days.

John and I of course laughed in our boots to think that we turned back, instead of going on to the band of blood-thirsty devils that we had started to go to.

The first thing after putting our horses up at the livery stable, we went to Wright & Beverly's store and deposited our "wealth."

John had a draft for one hundred and fourteen dollars, while I had about three hundred and fifty dollars.

We then shed our old clothes and crawled into a bran new rig out and out.

Erskine Clement, one of Mr. Beal's partners, was in town waiting to ship the herd which should have been there by that time.

But he hadn't heard a word from it, since getting Moore's letter--which, by the way, had to go around through Las Vegas, New Mexico, and down through the southern part of Colorado--stating about what time it would arrive in Dodge.

He was terribly worried when I informed him that John and I had neither seen nor heard anything of the outfit since it left the ranch.

That night about ten o'clock John, who had struck a lot of his old chums, came and borrowed twenty-five dollars from me, having already spent his one hundred and fourteen dollars that he had when he struck town.

I went to bed early that night, as I had promised to go with Clement early next morning to make a search for the missing herd.

The next morning when Clement and I were fixing to strike out, John came to me, looking bad after his all night rampage, to get his horse and saddle out of "soak."

I done so, which cost me thirty-five dollars, and never seen the poor boy afterwards.

Shortly after that he went to Ft. Sumner and was killed by one of "Billy the Kid's" men, a fellow by the name of Barney Mason.

Thus ended the life of a good man who, like scores of others, let the greatest curse ever known to mankind, whisky, get the upper hand of him.

Clement and I pulled south, our ponies loaded down with ammunition so in case the indians got us corralled we could stand them off a few days, at least.

We were well armed, both having a good winchester and a couple of colts' pistols apiece.

We found the outfit coming down Crooked Creek; they having left the main trail, or road, on the Cimeron, and came over a much longer route, to avoid driving over a dry stretch of country, forty miles between water.

Hence John and I missing them.

No doubt but that it was a lucky move in them taking that route, for, on the other, they would have just about come in contact with the three or four hundred Cheyenne reds, whose bloody deeds are still remembered in that country.

On arriving in town with the herd we split it in two, making four hundred head in each bunch, and put one half on the cars to be shipped to Chicago.

I accompanied the first lot, while Clement remained to come on with the next.

In Burlington, Iowa, I met Mr. Beals.

We lay there all day feeding and watering the cattle.

On arriving in Chicago, I went right to the Palmer house, but after paying one dollar for dinner I concluded its price too high for a common clod-hopper like myself.

So I moved to the Ervin House, close to the Washington Street tunnel, a two dollar a day house.

That night I turned myself loose taking in the town, or at least a little corner of it.

I squandered about fifteen dollars that night on boot-blacks alone.

Every one of the little imps I met struck me for a dime, or something to eat.

They knew, at a glance, from the cut of my jib, that they had struck a bonanza.

They continued to "work" me too, during my whole stay in the city.

At one time, while walking with Mr. Beals and another gentleman, a crowd of them who had spied me from across the street, yelled "Yonder goes our Texas Ranger!

Lets tackle him for some stuff!"

About the third day I went broke, and from that time on I had to borrow from Mr. Beals.

I left there about a hundred dollars in his debt.

After spending six days in the city I left for Dodge City, Kansas, in company with Mr. Beals and Erskine Clement, who, instead of stopping at Dodge, continued on to Grenada, Colorado, where the "Beals Cattle Co." still held their headquarters.

Arriving in Dodge City, I found Whiskey-peet, whom I had left in Anderson's stable, all O. K.

, and mounting him I struck out all alone for the "L. X."

ranch, two hundred and twenty-five miles.

Arriving at the ranch I found the noted "Billy the Kid" and his gang there.

Among his daring followers were the afterwards noted Tom O'Phalliard, and Henry Brown, leader of the Medicine Lodge Bank tragedy which happened in 1884, who was shot in trying to escape, while his three companions were hung.

"The Kid" was there trying to dispose of a herd of ponies he had stolen from the "Seven River warriors" in Lincoln County, New Mexico--his bitter enemies whom he had fought so hard against, that past summer, in what is known as the "bloody Lincoln County war of '78." During his stay at the ranch and around Tascosa, I became intimately acquainted with him and his jovial crowd.

I mention these facts because I intend to give you a brief sketch of Billy's doings, in the closing pages of this book.