Frontier Times Magazine

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The XIT maintained a general headquarters at Channing, in Hartley County. Here the general manager resided, and from this point all the business of carrying on the ranch was transacted. The amount of this business may be judged from the fact that besides 150,000 cattle, the buildings on each division, the fence that enclosed the ranch, there were 130 men, 1,025 saddle horses, 850 stock horses, 100 mules, 45 wagons, 1,000 gates, 335 windmills, and 500 dams or earthen tanks and 1,500 miles of pasture fence to be kept in order. During the first years of its existence the XIT freighted all its supplies from Dodge City, later from Amarillo; then Channing on the Fort Worth and Denver railroad, and Bovina, on the Santa Fe became the supply stations.

The company paid its men about $50-$100 each year, and employed about 130 men all the time.

The headquarters maintained a regular system of distributing mail to its employees. It endeavored to see that injured or sick men were cared for in a territory in which not one physician resided.

And during the years that the ranch was kept intact, its owners were learning about the country and gathering the information which would make it possible to successfully settle it. Rain gauges and thermometers were kept at every division headquarters and records carefully kept. Logs were kept of the wells, experiments were made with different crops to determine which were best fitted for the climatic conditions that prevailed.

In 1900 the great ranch was placed upon the market. According to the printed advertising matter of the company, one million five hundred thousand acres of it was sold by January, 1903.

During these early days, the owners advised prospective buyers not to purchase less than 2,000 acres, as at that time it was not believed that a smaller acreage could be profitably operated. Among the large early sales of the land, was that to the late Major Littlefield of Austin, who purchased 275,000 acres at $2 an acre. The 1,500,000 acres sold at that time brought $1.50 and $2 an acre and the money derived was used to develop the remainder of the ranch.

The owners sold their cattle holdings in 1909 and 1910, and since that time the land remaining as a part of the old XIT Ranch has been leased to livestock men or has been sold. It is estimated that 95 per cent of the buyers of this land became actual settlers.

Where in 1809 there were thousands of cattle and a few hundred persons, now there are hundreds of cattle and thousands of people. A territory which a generous census of 1900 gave 778 persons now has 46,000, and the story has just begun.

Dozens of rapidly-growing small towns and a few budding cities are to be found. Dalhart, Channing, Vega, Genrio, Summerfield, Friona, Bovina, Farwell, Amherst, Littlefield, Olton, and Muleshoe are growing by leaps and bounds. Where line camps may have stood now are school houses, structures of brick and mortar, equipped with electric lights and all modern appliances, and serving hundreds of children.

This land is now known, not by the single brand which its cattle made famous in the great markets, but by its varied products; wheat fields, some of them two to four thousand acres in area; maize, Kaffir, corn and feterita, which fed to hogs is making the farmer content and prosperous; potatoes, fruit and all the products of the truck garden are now to be commonly seen on the farms.

The last five years have seen the north boundary of the cotton region pushed constantly north. The old ranch area is proving itself a region particularly adapted to the raising of chickens and turkeys.

And now, in the opening months of 1927, there is not one of the Ten Counties in Texas, but with dreams of becoming the oil center of the Panhandle field. And no one knows yet which bit of the old land will be able to claim this title.

While this material development has been going so rapidly forward, spiritual and intellectual advances have been made. Where there was no church except the out of doors with its roof the sky. there are now hundreds. Where colleges were yet undreamed of, there are now three. Where there were camps for men there are now homes with life complete and happy.

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BEN DRAKE'S EXCITING LIFE ON THE RANGE

2017-11-10

Cora Melton Cross

Frontier Times Magazine, January, 1928

TRAILING cattle to Northern markets had passed from the embryo stage to a profitable business venture between 1866 and 1871—the year Ben Drake made his first drive. But the financial development in no wise lessened the hardship and danger encountered on the long, tedious, whooping up of the herd from two to four months at a stretch. The weather then was not merely an entrance wedge to polite conversation, but a thing to be reckoned with and endured. Swimming was classed neither as an art nor accomplishment, but a necessity; the one alternative for the cowboy who must cross bankful streams, minus bridge or ferry. Torrential rains were the order of the day and stampedes were of such common occurrence that the trail driver mentions them, merely, as part of the daily routine, unless marked by some outstanding feature.

Despite privations indescribable, happenings thrilling and hazardous, discomforts and suffering past endurance the trail held a fascinating lure that once experienced was seldom overcome save by a crucial situation demanding a radical change in the scheme of things entire. Thus it was with Ben Drake, who talks so interestingly of nine years of life up the trail.

"I was born twenty miles below Austin and grew up to the beginning of my tenth year working cattle." said Drake, continuing with, "and it was in the year of '71 when I was but 12 years old that I went with my first trail herd to Abilene, Kan. Tid and Kinney Murchison owned the cattle, 2,800 head there were, and their brother, Pete was herd boss. Cal Young, Pincher Stahl. a fellow named Butler and a big Swede who, because we never could pronounce his name, went by the 'handle' of 'Peter Swede,' and a few others I cannot now recall, were on that drive. It was a long and hard one, too, on account of hail and stampedes. One storm broke all records for the size of hail stones and it pretty nearly broke up Murchison's herd, too. The cattle ran hog wild and such a time we did have rounding ‘em up again. That storm impressed me so, boy as I was, that I determined, if I ever got home again, I would stay. But when we got to Abilene and I had seen the sights and started on the back trip, I lined up for the next drive Murchison was to make, which was as soon as it could be started. We had the same boss and bunch of cowboys and drove to the same market. But there was 2,700 cattle in that herd.

"Murchison Brothers seemed satisfied with my work and wanted me to make another drive with them. By this time I felt at home with their outfit and also on the trail and was glad of the chance to go again. We started that time with 2,900 head, making the total of the three drives amount to 4,800. That drive was exciting from start to finish, first one thing and another out of the ordinary happened all the way. But the climax came one afternoon as we were striking camp for the night. Bang! bang! bang! went the six guns in quick succession over the hill from our camp, followed by more rapid firing. Leaving the cook in full charge, we jumped our mounts and were off to see what it was all about, When we got there we saw one cowboy after another fire his gun and fall until nine of them lay piled up together dead as Heck. Nobody was left of that outfit but the cook was boss.

"They said it all started over one of the boys finding a stake pin and when he began tying his horse to it another rode up and claimed he'd seen it first. They got to fightin' and first one and another of the outfit joined in until it was a free for all and shootin to kill. We stayed and helped dig a grave big enough to bury ‘em all in and without ceremony or coffin we wrapped each one in his blanket and planted him, that was all. But do you know, it sort of struck me then, and does now, that something like that maybe caused the fellow to write the song that was so popular on range and trail. 'Oh, Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie.’ Not altogether the thought of loneliness surrounding it, though God knows it was bad enough, but knowing that coyotes would scratch up the body and with the buzzards' help, pick the bones clean, you know that sort of makes a fellow feel like he would like to have a coffin and a weepin' willow over his grave.

"Somehow that buryin' sort of put a damper on all of us for the rest of the drive up. Then, when we started back and began to feel kind of natural again, came a day when Tom Hamilton, one of our own outfit, got sick. It was on the border line of Kansas and the Indian Territory, and what I mean he was sure sick. We tried to get a doctor, but of course, it ended with tryin'. Tom got to sufferin' so that he begged me hour after hour to shoot him. But I never could just raise my six-gun and shoot a fellow lyin' helpless and sufferin' like he was even if he would have considered it a favor, and when he could not stand it any longer he just up and died. We buried him as best we could, and when I got back to Cedar Creek, in Bastrop County. and told his brothers George and Andrew about it, they asked me to go with ‘em and help to bring his body back and I went. I felt a whole lot better, too, when we buried the bones near his old home.

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"I made my fourth drive in the year of '74 from Williamson County to Abilene, Kan., with a herd of 2,000 owned by Tom Daly and John Snyder, Al Boyce bossed the herd. The trip was tiresome and uneventful excepting for severe thunderstorms and stampedes. I couldn't blame the cattle for runnin' either, for lightning just played tag all over them. It sure made a good boy out of me whenever it began forking out from their horns, I always stopped cussin' and went to singin' good religious songs.

In '75 I hit the trail to Nebraska with the same outfit and boss Bub Armstrong, Cal Joplin, with his brothers Cy and Ed, and several other boys that I have forgotten the names of, went along and we had one more time. Lots of stampedes, that were caused I guess, by so many buffalo and deer. There were 2,500 cattle in the herd and sometimes you could not hardly see 'em for the buffalo. We ate venison and buffalo steaks until we couldn't stand the sight of one.

The next year I went with Snyder and Daly to Wyoming and it surely was one rough trip. Rains were heavy and streams bankfull; it was cold and snowy and the herd of 2,500 old Longhorns well nigh unmanageable. They drifted terribly before the northers and snowstorms. But we finally got 'em to where we meant to take 'em and I went back to Williamson fully determined to stay put for a while. When I got there I ran into a herd that was passing through on the way to Utah. It was from the Saul ranch, bossed by one of Saul's boys, and I was off again. I know I have said a lot about rain and hail and cold and all sorts and brands of weather. but if all the other drives could have been rolled into one, with all of the misery we had suffered, it could not have equaled that one to Utah. I swam every stream we had to cross on the up drive, then rode with my clothes frozen plum stiff.

"That last drive filled my craw full for a while and I didn't try it any more until '79, when I did my last trail drivin' with Saul again. We ran into heavy rains that trip, too, in the Indian Territory, Couldn't keep a fire burning to cook a meal of victuals for two days and no grub ever will taste as good as that breakfast the morning of the third day when we broke our fast.

"It was along about then that I got shot in the stomach and leg and the boss took me to an Indian camp. We were in the Territory, and he told the chief to take good care of me until I got well. There were nine Indians, counting the squaws. besides a big passel of children, all living in two tents, but the chief put 'em all out of one of them, and fixed me in it; then he doctored and watched after me for a long three months. I fared like they did as far as food was concerned. if they starved I did likewise, When they ate so did I.

"When I got so I could hobble around a little the chief went to Texarkana and got the United States Marshal to take me to Austin and from there I went to my birthplace, twenty miles farther on. I started in all over again helping with the stock and farm, for I knew my trailing days were over—a fellow can't ride bucking bronchs with a lame leg. It has been pretty tough for me to just potter around instead of running my pony nicketysplit, like I used to do. But I will never forget the old trail driving days when boy as I was, I rode and drove, drank black coffee, ate camp chuck and slept on a slicker in the rain as sound as if I had been lyin' on a feather bed."

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Adventures on the Cattle Trail

2017-05-13

A. Collett Sanders, Littlefield, Texas,

I will give a short sketch of my life as trail boss from the '70's up to the end of the trail driving from Texas to the Northern markets.

The first herd I drove was for J. H. Stephens, well known as "Uncle Henry." He had fourteen nephews driving for him one year, and they all called him uncle Henry, so we did too. While driving one of his herds I had quite an experience with the Indians. When we got as far as Smoky hill River in Nebraska we found it out of its banks. As grass was plentiful and time no object, we decided to wait for the river to run down. Before long there were eight or nine herds waiting on the south bank for the river to get low enough to cross. A few miles east of our camps was a small settlement with a little schoolhouse nearby. A young lady, one of the settler's daughters, was teaching the school. While we were waiting there, about eighty-five or ninety Indians came along on a hunt, stopped at the schoolhouse and killed and scalped the teacher and two of the children. The Indians did not try to get away, as they knew the Government would do nothing with them, only carry them back to the reservation.

Some of the settlers came out to our camps and told us what had happened . They were greatly distressed over the matter, especially the young lady's father, and wanted to know if we could aid them in any way. Our men talked the situation over and we decided to go after the Indians. We elected a man by the name of Moore, from Nueces County, as our captain. He sent two men with one of the settlers to follow the Indians and locate their camps . They found them four miles west of the foot of a big sand hill, on the south side of the hill. Moore took four men from each trail camp, making thirty-two cowboys in all, and also a few of the settlers.

We were well armed—the trail men always were—and we were ready to fight to the utmost, for we were all very much wrought up over the crime which the Indians had just committed. After locating their camps we waited till about 3 o'clock in the morning, then went to the foot of the hill, dismounted and left our horses in care of two of the settlers. We walked to the top of the hill and did not have to wait long before the Indians began to get up and stretch themselves. When they were all sitting up on their beds we turned a volley from our Winchesters on them, and before they had time to recover from their astonishment we fired on them again. They began to run, but we got two more shots at them before they were out of gun reach. Every cowboy had sent a death message, for when the smoke had cleared away we found seventy-five dead and dying Indians. I do not think I killed any however, for I was so scared I think I overshot.

Only about fifteen ever showed up at the reservation. The majority never returned. The soldiers were sent out to bury them.

On another trip while working for Uncle Henry Stephens we boys got hungry for fresh meat. As we were going through the Indian Territory, now Oklahoma, the second day after we had crossed Red River we saw a herd of buffalo. Two of my men cut out a 2-year-old heifer, one roped her by the head, the other by the heels and strung her out, while a third man cut her throat. I do not believe the modern cowboy could pull off a stunt like that.

In 1885 I went to Oldham County in the Panhandle and drove for the L. S. Cattle Company from Tascosa to Montana. On my last drive for these people the ranch foreman, J. E. McAllister, sent with me a young man from Illinois who had come to Texas to learn trail work. We reached Cimarron River in No Man's Land and camped in the valley. Just after we had finished our supper and saddled the night horses it began to rain and we all had to go to the herd and stay through the night, but my new recruit did not show up. The next morning I asked him why he did not go with us. He said he could not find one of his socks, so he crawled in the mess wagon with the cask to wait till daylight to find it. After that we all called him "Socks."

When we reached the Arkansas River it was up but we put the cattle in and they were swimming fine until my right hand pointer stopped to make a cigarette and they got to milling on a sandbar in the middle of the river. I had already crossed to the north side, but seeing them milling, I swam back and roped a cow and dragged her out by the horn of the saddle. Then all the cattle followed her to the north bank. About the time I landed and turned my cow loose I heard someone crying for help. I looked and saw it was Socks. He had in some way got loose from his horse and was about to drown. I threw him a rope. He grabbed at it but missed it. I threw him the rope again and he caught it and held on until I pulled him out. We rolled him on the grass till we got the water out of him. Always after that, when we came to a swollen stream, we had to make a raft to carry him over.

I worked one year for Tom Moore of Llano County and one year for George W. Littlefield of Gonzales County. From 1887 to the end of the trail driving I drove for the Worsham Cattle Company, known as the R-2 outfit. I drove five herds for them. All the cattlemen for whom I ever worked are now dead and many of the foremen.

I was born in, Lavaca County, Texas, and reared in Gonzales County. My father, J. L. Sanders, settled in Lavaca County in 1848, after he came out of the Mexican War. I have passed my three score and ten milepost and am still hale and hearty. Sometimes I sigh for the old cattle trail days.

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Riding the Ranges in the Seventies

2017-04-06

From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, July, 1924.

Riding the ranges and following the trails in the days when the Texas longhorns were driven "north of 36" was not the romantic pursuit patrons of the movies, viewing the antics of some smooth-faced and girlishly bedizened lasso twirler or rodeo hero are thought to fancy. It was a serious occupation, attended with many hazards of life and limb, and calling for extraordinary powers of endurance and a courage that was frequently put to the test in meeting sudden dangers or unforeseen difficulties. The men who drove great herds over the long trails in the days before the railroads came rode daily in the face of ambushed perils—of lurking, predatory savages, of stampeding herds, of wind and weather, or long sleepless hours that tried their physical and mental endurance to the limits. Many have wondered at the sadness that pervades the old songs of the cowboys which have recently had a literary revival. But cowboying was, in fact, a rather sad profession. It meant loneliness, great responsibilities, small rewards, unflinching hardihood, and a philosophy that was immersed in the mysteries of wilderness solitudes.

Up in Northwestern Nebraska, at Agate Springs, "on the banks of the beautiful Niobrara," that winds through the country of the old Northwest trails, lives Capt. James H. Cook, now in his sixty-seventh year, says the Kansas City Star. He is one of the last of the old-time plainsmen—cowboy, scout, Indian fighter, ranchero, big game hunter, and once the trusted friend of Red Cloud, the great chief of the Ogalalla Sioux, who organized the last stand of the redman against the white tidal waves that poured into the Dakotas in the 70's. To quote the tribute of his friend, the veteran soldier and writer, Brig. Gen. Chas.King, Cook is "one of the very best of a type of American pioneers now well nigh extinct, yet well remembered—the keen-eyed, cool-headed, fearless men who, for half a century or more, were the guides and comrades of the cavalry of the army of the United States in its tireless, almost ceaseless task of clearing the way for and guarding the lives and property of the thousands of explorers, emigrants and settlers who sought out and peopled almost every cultivable valley from the Missouri to the mountains and from the staked plains of Texas to the British line—the scouts of the plains, men famous in song and story, of whom Kit Carson and Jim Bridger, in the early days and Buffalo Bill Cody and later still, Captain Jim Cook were the shining lights. In a recent book, published by the Yale University Press, "Fifty Years on the Old Frontier," Captain Cook has told the story of his adventurous life. The chapters devoted to his early cowboy days and his drives over the long trails give an unembellished picture of the life of the cowboy—a picture as fascinating in its interest as it is authentic of its depiction of the real life of the pioneer trail riders.

Captain Cook was but a stripling -- a Michigan youth of 17, full of romantic ideas about the west—when he took to the saddle and the life of a cowboy down in the Comanche country and along the borders of the Staked Plains. In 1870 when "Buffalo Bill" Cody was the chief scout of the 5th United States cavalry in the Platte country, Cook, seven years his junior, was taking his first lessons in flinging the lasso. For five years he rode the southern plains and drove herds of the longhorns over the Chisholm trail and over the far western trails into the northwest country. These five years covered the most active period of the overland cattle trade from Texas north; also they witnessed the heyday of a few other western incidentals, such as wild Indians, buffalo, freighters, stage drivers,, emigrants, whisky peddlers,and roaming desperadoes. One of the first things that Cook had to learn in the cowboy business was how to make—and to enjoy—a "Tucson Bed." It was the only sleeping comfort, aside from a saddle, that a cowboy often had. It was very simple in construction. It was made, explains Captain Cook. "by lying on your stomach on the prairie and covering yourself with your back. "But it was allowable "to put your saddle and saddle blanket over your head, in case of a storm, when hailstones larger than hen's eggs came along."

The old cattleman had a very practical way of teaching the raw recruits the economic value of brands. Cook's first cowboy job was with John Longworth, one of Ben Slaughter's caporals, or foreman."I was to go with Longworth," he relates, "out to the Frio and Nueces rivers country to help catch wild cattle, just as soon as Longworth should go broke playing Spanish monte and drinking whiskey. Before many days Longworth went broke and was sick enough to want to get out of town. In about four days we reached the ranch home of Ben Slaughter, father of Charlie, Billy and John Slaughter, later the big cattle drovers on the Texas trail to Kansas. After a while a little old man walked down from the house to our camp. He wore a belt filled with Henry rifle cartridges and the handle of a big butcher knife was sticking out of one of his boot tops. He began to talk to Longworth, using both Spanish and English. I soon discovered this man was none other than Ben Slaughter himself, who was now my employer. One day Longworth drew a rifle from his saddle and started to look a bunch of cattle over for a fat one to kill. In the meantime Mr. Slaughter had mounted a horse and rode down to where we were herding cattle. He said to me, "What's the matter, can't John find a fat one?” Just then I spied a fine fat heifer coming along the edge of the herd. I pulled my Spencer carbine and pointed it toward the animal and exclaimed,`That's a good one.' Slaughter started his horse towards me, fairly yelling, `Hold on, young man, don't you see that's a T-Diamond?' `Yes,' I replied.`What brand is that.?’ ‘l reckon that's my brand,' was the answer. 'We don't kill that kind in this country. Kill any L O W or a W B G' —meaning anyone's brand but his own. `They taste better.' And so Cook learned about brands from him.

In those days great herds of wild cattle swarmed the prairies. They were descendants of the Spanish Longhorns that had followed Coronado's glittering cavalcade across the staked plains. It was part of a cowboy's job to help round up bunches of the cattle and mix them with the tamer herds. It was a thrilling experience for a tenderfoot. Corrals were built, with strongly constructed wings running out from the gates, often two hundred yards and more in length.A decoy herd was taken out to lure the wild cattle in the bunch and the roundup was a function that called for skill and daring of the highest order and one that was full of picturesque aspects. Cook thus describes it:

"The following morning about sunrise we left the corral, taking with us the decoy herd, Longworth leading the way through the thick growth of chaparral and mesquite. After traveling a mile or more he led the herd into a dense clump of brush and motioned us to stop driving it. Then, telling two men to stay with the cattle, he rode off signaling the other men and myself to follow him. I fell into line behind all the other riders and we rode in single file for a couple of miles. Suddenly I heard a crash ahead and in less than two seconds every rider in advance of me was riding as if the devil was after him. My horse knew the work and plunged after the riders ahead. I gave him the reins, trailing the ones ahead by the crashing of limbs and dead brush—everywhere was brush, timber, cactus. I think I rode all over that pony, first on one side, then on the other. My pony was a cow-catcher by trade, he certainly made me pull leather and I clung to his mane in order to keep in close touch with him. I had a very strong desire for that chase to end. At last it did. I was at the finish.

"All at once I came in sight of one of my Mexican coworkers. His horse was standing still. The man put up his hand for me to stop and I did so willingly. He pointed to the brush ahead and I caught sight of some strange cattle. A few minutes later I heard voices singing a peculiar melody without words. The sounds of these voices indicated that the singers were scattering in the form of a circle about the cattle. In a few minutes some of the cattle came towards me and I recognized a few of them as belonging to the decoy herd. In a few seconds more I saw that we had some of the wild ones too. They whirled back when they saw men, only to find a rider wherever they might turn. Every man now began to ride very carefully and slowly, riding in circles around and around them, all except myself singing the melody known as the `Texas Lullaby.' For all I know I may have tackled that singing trick with wild cattle' for the first time right there, for I was about as excited as the wild cattle were. After a few moments Longworth rode away into the chaparral, singing as he went. The Mexican cowboys closed in on the cattle, starting to drive them after him, pointing the herd in the direction of his voice. I brought up the rear of the herd. We kept quite a distance from the cattle, each man trying to make no sudden move that might stampede the bunch. At last Longworth led the herd into the wings of the corral and the wild ones followed the decoys in." "In writing of these wild cattle," he adds, "I realize that it is a difficult thing to make even the present day cattlemen realize what the words `wild cattle' meant in Southern Texas at the time of which I write. These cattle would not graze on open ground in daytime, but would seek the deepest thickets, lie down with their heads on the ground like deer, on the lookout for danger and ready for a mad rush through the jungles to a place of safety."

Riding the long trail from Texas to Abilene was a trip beset with hardships, with perils of storm, with dangers from Indians stealing in to stampede the herds and with physical sufferings and exposure that often ended by the trailside.

"The first year that I was on the trail," Captain Cook relates."every river from the Red River to the Arkansas was `big swimming,' as the boys termed it. We lost numbers of cattle and horses by drowning. We had some bad hailstorms and windstorms. Sometimes we went for days at a stretch with scarcely a wink of sleep, because of the winds and rain, which made the cattle hard to control. In some places on the trail the country would become so very boggy after a long rainy spell and we had to resort to all sorts of schemes to snatch a little sleep when an opportunity presented itself. When three riders could get away at a time they would go a little way from the cattle and dismount, each holding his horse by the bridle rein. Then they would lie down in the form of a triangle, each man using his neighbors ankles for a pillow. In this manner the sleepers' heads would be kept out of the mud and water.

"Sometimes a rider would go to sleep while jogging along around the herd. There was a limit to the endurance of a cowboy. I have been so close to that limit that on one of two occasions I would get a little piece of chewing tobacco from one of the men and mixing it with saliva would rub my eyelids. This is great treatment when the thoughts seem to be all bent on having a nap. It could well be called a rouser. Yet the eyes, as well as ears had to be kept open, at any moment a rider was likely to be called upon to ride hard, should the herd be suddenly stampeded in his direction, or if the herd ran in another direction, he must hear the rumble and clatter of hoofs and make haste to locate it in time to be of assistance in rounding it up. What spirit fired and sustained those boys who drove the herds over the long trails is more than I can explain. But there were very few instances in which they proved quitters.

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RIDING THE RANGES IN THE 1870's

2017-04-06

From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, July, 1924.

Up in Northwestern Nebraska, at Agate Springs, "on the banks of the beautiful Niobrara," that winds through the country of the old Northwest trails, lives Capt. James H. Cook, now in his sixty-seventh year, says the Kansas City Star. He is one of the last of the old-time plainsmen—cowboy, scout, Indian fighter, ranchero, big game hunter, and once the trusted friend of Red Cloud, the great chief of the Ogalalla Sioux, who organized the last stand of the redman against the white tidal waves that poured into the Dakotas in the 70's. To quote the tribute of his friend, the veteran soldier and writer, Brig. Gen. Chas. King, Cook is "one of the very best of a type of American pioneers now well nigh extinct, yet well remembered—the keen-eyed, cool-headed, fearless men who, for half a century or more, were the guides and comrades of the cavalry of the army of the United States in its tireless, almost ceaseless task of clearing the way for and guarding the lives and property of the thousands of explorers, emigrants and settlers who sought out and peopled almost every cultivable valley from the Missouri to the mountains and from the staked plains of Texas to the British line—the scouts of the plains, men famous in song and story, of whom Kit Carson and Jim Bridger, in the early days and Buffalo Bill Cody and later still, Captain Jim Cook were the shining lights. In a recent book, published by the Yale University Press, "Fifty Years on the Old Frontier," Captain Cook has told the story of his adventurous life. The chapters devoted to his early cowboy days and his drives over the long trails give an unembellished picture of the life of the cowboy—a picture as fascinating in its interest as it is authentic of its depiction of the real life of the pioneer trail riders.

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Ab Blocker Tells About Trail Driving Days

2017-03-18

From Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, October, 1927

A MAN of the great outdoors, Ab Blocker; sun-browned his face, and written in with evidences of human contact in the wide open spaces where lines definitely drawn and there is no in between, because men are either white or yellow. The quick turn or the head and searching eyes leave nothing unmarked. An alertness that is far-sighted, far-reaching, deep with understanding measures every word, accounts for every act. A dislike for seeming bombastic enumeration of personal exploits, coupled with a gentleness to win a child, a gallantry and reverence for women, a sincerity of purpose, determined will and extreme contempt for a moral weakling. These combined with a six-foot two stature and simple dignity, enter Into the making of one who has won his master's degree in the college of experience—life.

One of four sons was Ab's part to do general ranch and farm work at home. The former was much to his liking, but farming had no part in his picture of the future. It was in ‘76 that he tried his wings, leaving the home nest to work for his brother, John on his Blanco County ranch. Gathering and roping wild steers from the brush and mountains was the task mapped out for him and Blocker declares "It was a man's job too." The steers were driven from where they were captured to Lockhart Prairie, fifteen miles below Austin.

"The year following the gathering of wild steers Brother John, the "big boss," together With sixteen cowboys, myself among them, trailed that herd to Cheyene, Wyo., in exactly eighty-two days. Of all the men who made that drive only three are now living; the others have crossed the Great Divide, but they left their pack horses behind.

"The weather, on that trip, was fiercely cold and our cattle seemed to feel It was a part of their daily routine to stampede and they did their whole duty at it, for they tried It most every night. Just the other side of Dodge City, Kan., there blew up a cold northwest wind that completely demoralized the cattle and the herd stretched out for three miles. Then a driving rain began falling and the combination broke the herd in two. It drifted to a creek and we worked like the mischief to pull it together again before night. When we unsaddled that evening our horses were tired and wet with sweat; the next morning we found every one of 'em stretched out dead, simply chilled to death, that's all.

"Speaking of cold weather, I remember that on the twenty-eighth day of March, '81, we had 3,000 cattle on our ole ranch below Austin. Mesquite trees were in bloom and spring had come, but she didn't stay for long, for that night there came a freeze that weighted the limbs to the ground and between 250 and 300 of those steers, while walking and grazing, were chilled so they froze to death. I've got witnesses to prove that, if anybody doubts it.

"The next spring, getting back to my story proper, after coming off the trail drive, I went on another to Ogallala, Neb. Brother John put me In charge of the herd, and we delivered it to Swenson Bros. near Cheyene, Wyo. The people in those parts then were a pretty tough not, all of the men carried pistols and Winchesters and I told the folks when I got back that the women gave their babies cartridge shells to cut teeth on instead of rubber rings. There were 3,000 cattle in the Swenson delivery and they were wild as bucks, more Blanco County steers out of the brush. In '81 I took a bunch of cattle to the Cross S ranch In Williamson County and the next year I drove 3,000 head from Austin to the Crazy Woman and Powder River. Wyo., and delivered them to Stoddard A. Howard at their ranch.

"I got tired of driving up the trail and thought I would try a new kind of work was what I'd call it. For two years I drove a yoke of steers twenty hours a day, for Brother Bill, hauling everything that could be called feed for cattle. The work was so easy and the hours so short that I found lots of Idle time on my hands in the few hours left of a day and night in which I had nothing to do but to enjoy myself and nothing to spend but easy made money; so I put in the special sessions at Austin and planted dollars where they did the least good and yielded the most fun.

"It was in '84 that I went with a bunch of cattle from Tom Green County to Buffalo Springs. The herd belonged to Brother John and I delivered it to old Barbecue Campbell in charge of a big ranch owned by a syndicate. Joe Collins was driving a herd at the same time, bound for the same ranch. and of course I wanted to beat him to It, which I did by driving at night some of the time. Old Barbecue was worrying himself purple in the face trying to select a suitable brand for the cattle that would also do for a name for the ranch. I suggested X. I. T. and that settled It. He had me burn the first steer to wear the brand, which later became one of the most widely known in the cattle industry: After the severe strain on my mentality In thinking up the name for that christening ceremony I left for Colorado with Alex Caspares, where we sold our horses and went by train from there to Dodge City, Kan.

"Brother John had about 2,500 head on the trail at that time and he wired me from San Antonio to get a horse, take the back trail and stop two or three of his herds, as he had sold part of each of them, which I was to deliver, taking the remainder to Deer Trail, Colo. I got my horse at Camp Supply, where I met all of the bosses of John's herds and they told me the ranchmen in No Man's land refused to let our herds pass. George West's cattle were tied up there, too, along with several smaller herds, belonging to various owners. I sent word to John and West and they came on the run to try to arbitrate; but the ranchers, armed to the teeth, rode the fence day and night and refused any and all offers made for a reasonable settlement, declaring no herd should pass. It was a serious situation. Cattle owners were losing lots of money by the holdup and the men were desperate. One of John's friends came to him and proposed to take his cowboys and "clean up the herd-stopping bunch," but he told him he preferred law and order and would appeal to the authorities in Washington, D. C. After many days of suspense a wire from Washington eased the tension and settled the question without argument, for It read, "Cut fence and pass cattle through, if trouble continues troops will be stationed to handle situation." I had my herd all set and when the boys chopped down that string of fence with axes I was the first one across the line. It was some sight, I tell you, to look back, as far as eye could see, over nothing but cattle, cowboys and chuckwagons all hustling to cross "the strip," which belonged to no man and was claimed by so many.

"In '86 I took a wagon, team and hands down below Pearsall, Texas, to receive 1.500 steers which I later drove to Hugo Colo„ for Blacker, Driscoll & Davis and turned them over to Fine Ernest. This firm had 57.000 cattle and 1,800 saddle horses on the trail that year. When I had put the cattle in old Fine's charge I came back with a wagon and a few of the boys to Tom Green County, where I gathered another herd and drove it to the mouth of Devil's River, delivering it to George Barry to winter there and put across into Mexico the following spring. Then I went back to Austin and farmed for my father and mother for two years. I never made a cent because of dry weather. That ended my farming for good and always and I swore that I'd boil cotton seed before I put 'em in the ground if I ever had to plant 'em again.

"In 1889 I drove 3,700 cattle from Tom Green County to Fort Laramie, where 1.000 of them were sold, and the remaining 2.700 I drove to the Belle Fourche River. When I hit Austin again I sure did live the life of a luxury loafer until my money played out, which is a tragedy whenever it happens; but one that I have found can be lived through several times. When I hit Brother John's Chuperado ranch he put me to work as a plain cow hand, but sometime later he made me boss. This was near Eagle Pass. in the year of 1890. The following year I wintered eight miles from Eagle Pass feeding 1,500 steers. While I was moving a herd one day a fellow rode up and asked me if I had any strays in it branded with a club. I told him I didn't. He rode around a little, came back and said, "If I am not badly mistaken there is an ox on the off side of your wagon tongue that has a club on it" I gave him a first class lesson in cussin' and he asked me who was boss of the herd. I said. "Me, Ab Blocker." He looked at me a minute and said, 'Is It possible for you to be a brother to as good a man as John Blocker?" I decided right then that it was useless for me to do anything more than shine in reflected glory.

"In 1892 I worked cattle with Blocker & Coleman's outfit and the next year Brother John sent me with a wagon and eighty-two horses from Spofford Junction to somewhere about seventy-five miles from Colorado City. From there I was to drive a herd to South Dakota for Harris Franklin. John had told me to cut all cattle that I thought unfit for the trip and although they had been received, I did what he told me, leaving with 2,997 head losing but fourteen of them between there and Deadwood, S. D. When John met me—he had never seen the herd before—he looked it and said: 'Ab, this is the best herd of cattle I ever saw come over the trail.” I felt pretty good after that. When I got back to Texas I was offered a job with the Live Stock Association for the State end I stayed with it eight years. Then I went back to the Chupadero ranch: where I made my headquarters until 1912.

"Now I am at Big Wells and expect to stay. I have looked down the backs of more cattle than any man now living, am 71 years old, own the best cutting horse in Texas and ride him every day. I am going to keep up that lick for ten years longer, then turn Into a gray mule and graze the rest of my life. I figure that I have earned enough free grass to run me the rest of the time I'm here after that and I'd have to be as no 'count as a mule to quit working cattle and riding horses."

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SWIMMING CATTLE ACROSS THE CANADIAN

2017-03-07

From Frontier Times Magazine, April, 1941

By Ira Aten

In 1898 there were three divisions of the XIT ranch lying south of the Canadian River—the Escarbada No. 5, Spring Lake No. 6, and Yellow House No. 7.

When Spring came to the ranch our first detail of work was to gather our yearling steers and deliver them to Buffalo Springs division, which was on the extreme north end of the ranch adjoining a section which we boys called "No Man's Land." We would commence this work just as soon as the cattle and horses could "stand alone." We used this term to express the condition of the animals because the cattle were very poor and the horses had been running loose in the Canadian brakes horse pasture all winter and generally were able to be ridden about the tenth or fifteenth or April.

Our next detail of work, or "roundup" would commence about July 10, and continue for a month or six weeks. This work was the big branding job of the year. On the Escarbada division we branded from six to nine thousand calves each year, depending on the severity of the previous winter. During this branding we did not carry any herd so the boys would not have any night guard to stand when they were working so hard at branding. A cowboy usually worked about sixteen hours a day in the roundup season of the year and his pay was the whole sum of $25.00 per month, he furnished his outfit consisting of saddle, bridle, blanket, slicker and bed. The ranch furnished the grub and horses and the big broad prairie to roll out his bed on.

About the tenth of September we started our third roundup of the year. During that time we would gather our beef herd, fat dry cows and such barren cows as we could guess, together with old bulls, and deliver them to Channing for shipment to the stock market in Kansas City. During this roundup we also branded all the calves dropped or missed since the July branding. The shipment to Kansas City usually consisted of about 1,000 head of beef cattle from Escarbada division and if the market was good we were sent back to gather a second herd for shipment, which sometimes would carry us way into November before we could finish and it would be very cold standing night guard and sometimes caught in a snow storm.

Late in December we gathered up the bulls. I always tried to get this job done quickly so the boys could all go home for Christmas. Should it happen we would be delayed in this work from any unforeseen cause, I would allow everyone who wanted to, to go home for the holidays and I would pick up the camp and windmill men to finish the job.

We did not make any regular roundup of the cattle to gather the bulls, but just drifted through the cattle and gathered the bulls, finding some ten or a dozen in bunches at this time of the year, with others hanging along the fence lines trying to get back their winter pasture. Again at this time we gathered any unbranded calves to be found and branded them, as it was unsafe to allow any unbranded calf to gc through the winter near the New Mexico fence line. I always impressed upon the boys the idea to braid every calf over three days old, as to allow it to remain unbranded might make a thief out of an honest boy.

We run one bull to every twelve or fifteen cows and they were turned loose the first of July, which brought the time to drop calves about April 1, and would last until up in September. In this way we were able to get from 60 to 75 per cent calf crop, depending on the loco weed and the severity of the winter. Our yearly losses were from 5 to 10 per cent from all causes. The wolves took their share; the blackleg and bog in the Spring at heel fly time also accounted for part, but the greatest loss came in years when the loco weed was at its worst, which was about every three or four years after we had plenty of rain in the summer and fall. It seemed to hit us worst in the fall and winter. Many of our best horses became locoed and were never much use after that. Should a cow become badly affected by the loco weed it was better to knock her in the head as she was sure to die from the effects of the weed before spring. The loco weed was the worst on the plains. It did not grow much under the Canadian river banks.

Among our losses we counted only cattle and calves which had been branded. It must be understood that we did not feed the cattle in those days, but they had to rustle for themselves or starve and in that way they were more subject to eat the loco weed. However, any poor cow, heavy with calf, which would be found close to a camp would be picked up by the camp main, taken to camp, and fed hay.

When we started out in the spring to gather the yearling steers, ten riders were used, each man having ten horses. With the regular outfit was also a horse wrangler and a cook. The horses at that time of the year were all fresh from their winter rest and many of them had to be broken over again. Among the mounts for each man were given two fresh broncs each year, which made things very interesting for the boys during the first two or three weeks of work.

Each day we usually made two roundups so that we would not have to throw large bunches of cattle together for any great length of time. We would then cut out the yearling steers, allowing the cows to go, as they had begun dropping their calves and were in poor condition. These cattle had been so accustomed to running to the roundup ground,which was always at some watering place, at the first sight of the cowboys on the circle and hearing their cowboy whoops, that they would break and run. The cows with little calves would be dropped out but usually followed along behind us as fast as the little crooked legged fellows could travel and they would generally get to the roundup ground about the time we turned her loose. Cutting off from its milk (as many of them were still suckling) took a good cowboy and a good cow horse. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not have held these yearlings from their mothers at night, particularly a stormy night, on their own range, and so it was necessary to pen them at night in pens located at convenient places about the ranch for branding purposes. When such a pen was full the animals would be taken to the Trujillo 5-wire fence bull pasture until the herd had been collected together and by that time the yearlings would be pretty well weaned and could be handled quite easily. All the cows which had dropped winter calves were also gathered and branded on this work.

We usually arrived at the Canadian river abort the last of May or early in June, which was the rainy season over in New Mexico. On the particular drive of which I am writing, we had over 3,600 head of yearling steers—the largest herd we had ever driven North. As we left the ranch with the herd we could see great black clouds hanging over the tributaries of the Canadian river over in New Mexico. They had been in the sky for the preceding week or ten days and we were wondering how high the river would be when we reached it. The day before we arrived at the river it had rained and that added to our troubles.

Our suckling yearlings were about weaned and they were fairly easy to hold in the herd at night and the last night we made camp before reaching the river we did not have any serious trouble, but the yearlings were restless and wanted to walk and walk all night. The next morning I rode ahead of the herd down to the river, several miles away, to look over the ground and estimate what we would be up against when we started to cross. I found the river booming out of its banks. The current was very rapid and much driftwood was speeding downstream. I rode back to the herd and told the boys we had a bad river to wrestle with. Not a single smile creased the faces of the boys when I told them this news as they realized we were in for a tough time. It was enough to make one's hair stand on end to face that flooded river with 3,600 head of yearling steers. When faced by any flooded stream I had made it a practice to keep the cattle from water the day before at noon so they would be thirsty and take to the water with a rush when we came to the river. As it had rained heavily the night before and there were puddles of water standing all about, I knew it would be useless to try to get the herd to take to the river that day.

We threw the cattle back on a hill where there was no water and grazed them until the next day, hoping by that time the swollen river would recede, but no such good luck was in store for us. I determined to risk crossing at noon as the cattle were getting thirsty and so far as we could judge it might be a week or two before the river would go down. We had an early dinner and then about noon drove the herd down to the river.

Being very thirsty by that time the leaders rushed into the water, drinking as they went in, and were in swimming before they realized what had happened. When an animal starts to swim it looks straight ahead and seldom turns around to come back but will try to follow any object ahead of it. Often, if the riders are not watchful, the animals may go downstream with the current and come out on the same side they went in.

When crossing a herd of cattle in flood time the boys would always take off their boots and part of their clothing while others would strip to the skin. The boys had great arguments who had the best swimming horse and thought about as much of him as they did of their cutting or night horses. Not every horse will swim when a rider is on his back. Some will turn on their side and float downstream with the current until the rider gets off, others will sink like rocks. In either case the rider would slide off behind, grab the horse's tail and give it a severe twist. This would wake up the animal and start him swimming for the shore. Such peculiarities made it necessary that each rider know the habits of his swimming horse. The boys would take off their flank cinches or tie them up so as to give the horses a chance to expand with plenty of air to keep afloat.

The boys knew their places on the downstream side of the herd and followed it as the cattle took to the water behind the remuda. When cattle strike the swift current of a stream they will not make much effort to swim straight across unless they are forced to by the men on the downstream side. The boys splash water in the faces of the cattle; some would whip them over the heads with their ropes. Where the leaders go in swimming water, the herd is sure to follow and sometimes will come out on the opposite bank a quarter or half mile below where they started in, making a rainbow or arch in crossing. It usually takes about an hour to put such a herd as we had across a river after starting in (if you have good luck) and it is a beautiful and exciting sight to witness if you are standing off on a hill.

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When the leaders of the herd get into wading water they were turned upstream to where the horses were and the herd then made a greater effort to swim straight across the river. Most of the boys would return to the water and help keep the cattle from drifting downstream so far as to get completely out of control. Anyone who has had the experience will agree that it is no joke to swim a large herd across any river, particularly the Canadian, with its swift current and red, muddy water. As the river was very high and dangerous, we decided not to undertake bringing our wagon across, so we carried our beds on the horses and such grub as we could get along with—flour, bacon, coffee and salt. From there on we would use pack horses and left instructions to our cook to remain where be was until we returned, some ten or fifteen days later.

The previous year we had reached the river just as the rise had fallen and it left the river very boggy with quicksand. Some of our steers bogged down at the edge of the water going in and coming out and we had to dig them out. When an animal bogged down in quicksand the only way to save him is to dig his legs out by our hands, turn him on his side and let him crawl on his knees and flounder out. To try to pull himout by the neck often means death to the animal.

On the occasion just mentioned, as our team neared the opposite bank of the river our two horses bogged down and one of them rolled over on his side and it was with great difficulty that we kept him from drowning. One of the boys jumped off his horse and held up his head while the other men unhitched them. We then had to dig out his legs after which he floundered out onto solid ground.

It was a regular practice of mine to take the lead team off in crossing a flooded river as there was always danger of the wheelers getting their feet tangled in the stretchers of the lead team. Then, two of the men would tie their ropes to the end of the wagon tongue and could pull much more than the lead team.

Getting a horse out of the mire was just a minor detail of our troubles, however. Our wagon had settled down in the sand to the hubs. We then carried out our bedding and grub and floated out the wagon bed. We had to dig out each wheel; take it off and carry it out and then carry and float out the running gears. The rear wheels had settled down so far in the water and sand that the boys had to dive down many times to unscrew the nuts so as to get off the wheels. It took us all afternoon to get out our wagon and it was some job.

Not daring to undertake bringing our wagon across the river this time, we camped on the north bank for the night, looking back wishfully at our chuck wagon and the cook waving his big white apron and laughing at us, holloring "come and get it." He was having a real vacation.

The next night we camped on the Rita Blanca, south of Ealy Moore's horse pasture. It had started to rain again and many range cattle had drifted in on the Rita Blanca flats. I knew our herd could not be held during the night storm without becoming badly mixed with the range cattle, although they had been fairly well trained for the trail and our milk calves were not giving us much trouble. Still, many yearling steers had just been gathered in the Rita Blanca pasture and the mother cows were running everywhere in search of their calves. With this difficulty facing us and not wishing our cattle to get mixed up with the range cattle which might take us all the next day to cut the herd, we let down the horse pasture fence on the south side and turned our cattle loose in there. The yearlings, trying to go back home held to the south fence and did not track up the pasture very much. If Ealy ever knew about it he never said anything to me. My invitation to the boys from the south end of the ranch was to use my horse pasture in every emergency.

After getting our cattle out of the horse pasture the next morning we trailed the 101 Ranch and camped for the night on a big flat. It looked like it was going to be a very stormy night and we knew the yearlings would give us much trouble. The old reliable cowboys tied up two night horses so that when one gave out the other would be fresh. Nothing tires or worries a man so much as to ride a tired horse. It is a sort of disgrace for a cowboy to let his herd get away from him and we did not want that to happen to us.

It rained all night and the cattle gave us much trouble. We could keep track of the herd only by the flashes of lightning which lit up the sky. Yearlings do not stampede and run like grown cattle. They will jump and run; many of them would start bawling and then the run would slacken and they could easily be turned into a mill. Big steers are more subject to stampede than cows or younger cattle. When a large herd of 4 to 6 year old steers stampede there is something doing. It is only 45 or 50 years ago when Amarillo was the largest range cattle shipping point in the world, that a large herd of steers from the South Plains stampeded and ran four or five miles before the leaders could be turned. No good cowboy dares to ride in front of the leaders of such a stampede. He follows at the side of the leaders and watches until they become winded and slacken in their run and he gradually turns them on a wide circle and into a mill. My instruction to my men was that the men on the right hand side of the herd always do the turning of the leaders. Men on the left hand side would drop back and give the leaders a chance to circle back in the running line of cattle which we cowboys called a "mill."

It is quite amazing as well as aggravating to see a new cowboy ride at neck break speed on the opposite side of the leaders to run them twice as far as if he had dropped back and given the man on the right a chance to turn them.

During the run of such a stampede not a sound can be heard except the clatter of hoofs and the knocking of horns. The cowboy lonesome wail has but a little effect on them until they get over their fright and run. Some of the cowboys were up all night with our herd, which seemed determined just to walk and walk, not so much to run.

When I went back to camp after daylight everything was floating in water. Some of the boys had come in worn out and were sound asleep with water all about them. Our flour and salt were ruined and to make things still worse a coyote had come into camp and stolen our bacon. The storm finally wore itself out and the only men with dry matches were the ones who had been up all night.

We drove the herd on a few miles to a windmill and corral where we found some dry wood and made coffee and cooked our flour dough the best we could, without salt. I was afraid to kill a beef without any salt, as there was danger of making the boys sick— they were so hungry. I told them to drive the herd up across the railroad and I went to the nearest section house to get some flour and salt. That section house was near where Dalhart stands today. We had a great feast that night as the cattle, being worn out, gave us but little trouble.

The balance of our trip was easy. The herd trailed out the next day northeasterly across the sandhills—a beautiful sight to behold as they straggled along almost in single file from hill to hill.

During my ten years as foreman of the Escarbada division of the great XIT ranch, I had some as good cowboys as ever straddled a horse and as brave as any matador in the arena. They were not afraid of man or beast— nor of the Canadian river in flood time. Some of these boys worked for me six and eight years, and it is with great respect and appreciation for their faithful service that I write these lines. Some of the old boys have passed over the Great Divide and many of us who are left, see the sun setting in the West.

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MY EXPERIENCE ON THE RANGE AND ON THE TRAIL

2017-01-24

Written by A. Huffmeyer, San Antonio.

From Frontier Times Magazine, April, 1924

The subject of this article was born in Kendall County, Texas, on a farm on the Guadalupe River, November 25, 1855. I was left an orphan at 4 years of age and taken to Castroville and put in charge of a foster mother by the name of Christilles. This was just a short time before the Civil War, and I lived there until after its close.

Those were hard times in this country. People thought they were making great sacrifices during the World War just ended; if they had gone through what the old pioneers of the Civil War had to they would see they had a picnic compared to that. Such a thing as a real cup of coffee was not to be had at all. Instead they roasted corn and acorns and mixed certain portions together and used it. Sugar, flour, syrup, or even the commonest grades of molasses, were luxuries not to be thought of.

I don't remember ever getting as much as a stick of barberpole candy for Christmas, nor a pair of shoes, even for Sunday wear. Fortunately, we had plenty of good fat beef, and milk and butter, and cornbread and vegetables we could raise, so nobody had to suffer the pangs of hunger.

On January 1, 1866, when I was 10 years old, my Uncle Louis Oge, who had a ranch out on the Frio River, Frio county, took charge of me and placed me in Saint Mary's College, San Antonio, where I stayed until January 1. 1870. About that time he came to San Antonio after a load of provisions and decided to take me along out to the ranch, mostly as company to his young wife, he having just recently married.

Now, you can imagine how glad I was to get out of that college, after having been cooped up for four long years. I felt like a bird out of a cage.

I was then 14 years old and never had any experience in ranch life. His ranch was located 35 miles southwest of where Pearsall is now, this being long before that town was started, and four miles above Frio Town, the county seat, which was just laid out and organized that year. His nearest neighbor was James Blackaller, who lived about 200 yards away, and the next nearest was Jake Vinton, two miles above on the river.

Well, after uncle had his wagon loaded we started for the ranch. The first day we traveled 32 miles, camping on the Francisco Creek, seven miles south of Castroville, which was about the last settlement on our trip. So far everything had gone all right, but the next day things were getting to look scary to me —nothing but heavy brush and prickly pear to see. I could imagine there was a bunch of Indians lying for us in every thicket. The only ranch we passed that day was the John Redus ranch on the Hondo.

After that there were no more until we reached home. The second day we camped on the Seco, about 12 miles from our destination, and just before we got to the creek we found where someone had killed a wild hog and left about one-half of it, only taking the hams and ribs. I asked my uncle who could have killed it. He replied possibly some ranchman living several miles up the creek.

That explanation was probably true, but it did not satisfy me at all. I could not think of anything but Indians having done it. So after we selected a camping ground a little way from the main road and, having had supper, spread down our pallet on the ground and turned in.

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My uncle was soon snoring away, but you can bet your life this kid did not sleep a wink that night for fear a bunch of Indians would pounce upon and kill us But my fears were all uncalled for, as nothing outside of the howling coyotes and lobo wolves, which were feasting on the remnant of the aforementioned hog, was heard. So next day noon we reached our destination without any mishaps, and Mrs. Oge seemed very glad to see us, after having been alone for a week, with only a young negro named Henry Toilet as company. So next day uncle and the Negro Henry saddled up their cow ponies and went at their daily work, which was roping and branding mavericks. Now perhaps many readers of this article will wonder what a maverick was, so I will explain how the name originated.

Before the war Mr. Sam Maverick, the father of Sam, Albert and William Maverick, now living in San Antonio, was the largest stockman in this part of the country, having many thousand head of cattle, and during the war all available men were forced to take up arms and go to war, which left no one to look after cattle or anything else. The consequence of which brought on thousands of unbranded cattle from one to three and four years old, so after the war when the soldiers returned they found conditions as above stated and everybody who could afford to buy a few cow ponies got busy and commenced roping and branding those cattle, and since Mr. Maverick's holdings were so much larger than anyone else's the natural supposition with every one was that most of them belonged to him; hence the name.

Well, my job on the ranch soon got on my nerves, and I soon began to yearn to go out with uncle and Henry and help them rope and brand mavericks; so after about six months of that kind of life, I finally persuaded my uncle to let me accompany them on their rounds.

So he ordered Mr. Charley Stewart, a Yankee living at the Sheidly ranch, four miles below on the river, who made saddle-making a business, to make a saddle and bridle for me. I think the anticipations of that event were the happiest of my whole life. So in about ten days my outfit was ready, saddle, bridle, blanket and rope. The first thing I did after getting it, I disobeyed orders and got into trouble.

My uncle caught one of the gentlest ponies for me and saddled it. He sent me down to Friotown after a few pound of nails. So I got upon my pony and started to town. I had hardly gone a mile when I saw a bunch of cattle and three mavericks amongst them. Well, that was too much for me. I could not pass by without trying to catch one of those suckers.

I took down my rope and decided to rope one of them and tie it to a mesquite sappling and let Henry come down and brand and mark it. Fortunately, this was in a pretty open stretch of country, and my pony knew his business. So I took after them end selected the nicest one, a big brindle colored fellow, and soon caught up with him. I commenced throwing my rope at him. After about seven or eight trials I finally caught hint after he was thoroughly exhausted.

I had no trouble in tying him to a tree. Unfortunately for me I failed to drop the bridle reins over my pony’s neck to the ground, in which case he would have remained on the spot, as he was accustomed to. While I was tying the maverick to the sapling, my pony just trotted away back to the ranch.

When I took after him he went faster and faster, and I was left afoot going back to the ranch, you can imagine now my uncle felt when he saw that pony come loping up to the ranch without the rider.

He jumped on a horse and leading my pony came down to find out what had happened. He soon saw me coming along and asked what the trouble was. So I up and told him what had happened that I had a fine maverick tied down the road for him.

"I didn’t send you out to rope mavericks, I sent you after nails!" He further reprimanded me sharply for disobeying orders, so I remounted my pony and fulfilled my errand. This ended my first experience in roping mavericks.

After that I soon got on to the ways of catching them. While my uncle and Henry would catch from fifteen to twenty a day each, I would come along with ten to twelve, until 1 got to be about as good as they were.

This work kept on for about three years. Then Mr. Calvin Woodward and Mr. Oge formed a partnership and embarked in the Kansas drives, making their first drive in 1873, and taking up a herd each successive spring until 1883, I think. The first real beef cattle, however, that were driven out of that country was done by Bishop and Collins, who commenced buying up aged steers in 1868 and driving them down to Indianola and shipping them to New Orleans. Those were the cream of the steer cattle in those days, buying nothing under four and five years old up to ten and twelve years, and paying from eight to ten dollars per head.

They would buy up from 200 to 250 head at a time, and as Mr. Oge had a large beef pen on his ranch, they made that one of their stopping places. I venture to say they had many steers in their herds that would weigh from 1,200 to 1,600 or 1,800 pounds. They looked like corn fed cattle.

People were honest in those times. Bishop and Collins paid cash in gold coin for all the beeves they bought and carried their money buckled around their waist. Because everybody was armed to the teeth on account of Indians there never was any stick 'em up stunts pulled off. As is customary today, I have seen Mr. Collins unbuckle his belt crammed full of yellow boys and hang it on a mesquite limb over his pallet and lie down to sleep soundly all night. Never once thinking of taking any chances of losing it.

In January, 1873, Woodward and Oge prepared to take up their first herd; so got up a bunch of cowboys, mostly Mexicans, rounding up all the beef cattle they could get along with the mavericks, and after branding the latter they would turn them and the she cattle loose on the range. Their foreman was Henry Curtis from Goliad. He and myself being the only white men in the bunch with from six to eight Mexican vaqueros as company.

We first worked out all the country tributary to the ranch, holding all the steer cattle we secured, regardless of whom they belonged to. In those days the cattlemen were only too glad to get rid of their cattle in that way, trusting to the drivers' honesty in paying for them on their return. After working out all the country around the ranch we would go out to certain pens which had been put up at permanent waterholes and work from one to another. As soon as we rounded up several hundred head of beeves we would send them to the ranch, and kept that up until they had the required amount.

Our camping outfit consisted of an old coffee pot and skillet and lid, and a tin cup for each man. Our provisions were a bag of cornmeal and about ten pounds of green coffee and salt, which we packed on one of the gentlest ponies we had, each man having a couple of blankets, a blue army overcoat, which was about the only thing we could get to keep warm (but not dry, as they were not waterproof). This was long before the fish brand slickers was invented. During severe rain storms and protracted wet spell, we surely were up against a tough proposition, as we had to sit up all night when it rained, never having as much as a tent to sleep under.

Still, with all the hardships we had to undergo I don't remember of ever any of us getting seriously ill. Our menu on these rounds was very simple. From one year's end to the other we had cornbread, beef and black coffee. While the cornbread was baking, with tallow for shortening, the beef would be broiling on a stick, and I can assure you it tasted mighty good, since we killed nothing but the choicest heifer yearlings, and in the summer season, on account of the blowflies, we were obliged to kill one every evening and as we never had anything at noon we just made supper and breakfast out of it. The balance was thrown away for the javalins. Talk about a hungry bunch of men, when we hit camp at dusk and had not a bite to eat since breakfast, hustling cattle all day, we were some hungry then. We would have to kill our meat for supper. In order to ease our hunger a bit we would take the liver out of the yearling as soon as possible and throw it on the coals to roast, then take the leaf of fat and broil it over the liver and in about ten minutes we could be breaking our fast, while the full meal was being prepared, and you can bet your sweet life we enjoyed our meals.

In the fall of 1876 1 decided to work for myself a while, so after having bought three cow ponies I set out to roping and branding mavericks on my own hook. It took me quite a while to decide on what brand and mark to put on them. Finally I selected 7T6 on the left side and crop the right and under half crop the left. I stayed at the ranch during this time doing chores mornings and evenings for my board and lodging. After about six weeks of this work I had branded something over 250 head of mavericks. One of my chums asked me one day whether I had ever recorded my brand and mark in the county records, to him I replied in the negative. So he told me I had better get busy and attend to it at once before someone else did it for me in his name. Well, that was all news to me, as I did not even know I had to do it. When I told the county clerk the brand and mark I wanted recorded, he said why that brand had already been recorded, several weeks ago by so and so. Well, I almost fell over with the shock it gave me. For being such a bonehead I lost all my hard work by not knowing so simple a thing as that.

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AN OLD TRAIL DRIVER TALKS ABOUT EARLY DAYS

2017-01-15

By Cora Melton Cross

Wm. Simpson has been a resident of one county in Texas for forty-seven years and according to his idea, "there's no better place on God's green earth to spend the rest of the years he has to live than in Wise County."

Mr. Simpson has seen the transformation of town and country, the free grass range cut and fenced with wire into enormous pastures, they in turn cut into moderate sized stock farms, and in some few instances he has seen these develop into towns plats or additions to towns, that have since become cities, and which at that time were simply groups of three or four houses with one store, carrying general merchandise, one or two saloons, a blacksmith shop and some sort of a name tacked onto the whole to let folks know that it was supposed to be such and such a town. He is brimful of stories and experiences of pioneer days as seen and known by the Texas cattleman of that. time, and we are here giving some of these just as he told them.

"I think lots, as I grow older and older and new inventions are made to give us comfort and pleasure, and help, about the days of the old frontier. My ranch, now located in Wise County, where I went forty-seven years ago make my home, is modern in every way. Automobiles and trains are ready to take us to and from places. We sit at home on a rainy day,or freezing cold night and hear the stock reports, a good sermon, or a fine musical program on the radio. Our fields are plowed and harvested by machinery and our livestock are largely maintained that way. The stock farmer rides 'round his calttle or sheep in his car and the dairy business is carried on by trucks.

"I was a young fellow when I first started out to be a `cowman' and the height of my ambition then was to see my brand on every cow brute that I came across. I'll never forget my first visit to Fort Worth, or to the `Fort,' as it was then called. We came through it one cold, rainy day. There were a few log cabins set 'round in a square, with one larger one, the commissary, at the back side of them. All of them had port holes to shoot from. Outside of the Fort proper, there was a box room store or two, six or seven saloons, some of which had poles set up for rafters with buffalo or cowhides for the roof. The post office was there, which made the place unusually interesting, for getting mail was an important thing then. You see that has been a long time ago. We were driving one-horse team and a yoke of oxen that `geed and hawed' to the names of `Rock' and `Tony.' It got colder and colder all the way and the week before Christmas we landed in Wise county in a two foot snow, and camped in a little log school house till the cold spell broke up. Then we set out to find a place to live in for the balance of the winter. Houses were scarce as hen's teeth then, and we were lucky to chance on Ira Long, then captain of the Texas rangers, and a better man never lived than he. He let us move in his log smokehouse, and I've often thought since that no house has seemed finer nor better than did that little old log cabin that cold winter of '77.

"Capt. Long was an Indian fighter and he was also an Indian hunter, and the red devils sure did hide out unless they knew they outnumbered his men. If they did they would attack, but they had to be sure they had the corner on Long to do it; for they knew he was bad medicine'—that was what they called him. Talk about your stories, I wish you could have talked with him; he would have told you some real exciting things, not a yarn, but sure enough truth that was as thrilling as a movie.

"Well we decided to go the next spring to Decatur, and we did. It was a little camp, or town, as they called it then consisting of one store, which was in a one-room box house, two saloons, one of which had a barber shop in it, and a little frame courthouse, the only framed house in that part of the country.

"Yes, there were a few folks that had farms, or that was what they called them. They were about as big as my bandanna that I wore round my neck and grew, mostly, feedstuff for a couple of work horses and oxen, and some cabbage and onions and turnips also for the table, when blister bugs didn't get them first, as they most of the time did. We lived on dried fruit, frijoles and buffalo, antelope, deer and quail meat. And there was lots of all of it to be had for the killing.

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