GEORGE W. SAUNDERS President and Organizer Old Time Trail Drivers'



Interesting Sketches of Early Cowboys and Their Experiences on the Range and on the Trail during the Days That Tried Men's Souls— True Narratives Related by Real Cowpunchers and Men Who Fathered the Cattle Industry in Texas

Originally Compiled and Edited by

Published under the Direction of

Introduction by


International Standard Book Number 0-292-73076-4 (pbk.)
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 84-52817
Copyright 1924 by George W. Saunders
Copyright 1925 by Lamar & Barton, Agents
Copyright 1985 by the University of Texas Press
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
Third University of Texas Press Paperback Printing, 2000
Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to Permissions, University of Texas Press, Box 7819, Austin, Texas 78713-7819.
G The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
This edition is taken from the second edition revised (two volumes in one) published in 1925
by Cokesbury Press.


An estimated 25,000 to 35,000 men trailed six to ten million head of cattle and a million horses northward from Texas to Kansas and other distant markets between the end of the Civil War and the turn of the century. Judging from the literary remains housed in range archives and libraries, memories of the experience lingered far longer in the minds of the men and boys involved than did the tracks of bovine hooves upon the landscape of the Great Plains and beyond. Besides drudgery and hardship, the long drive promised excitement and danger for some; for many, a trip across the prairie behind a herd of Texas Longhorns was the most unforgettable experience of their lives. Years later, memories of raging rivers, unpredictable stampedes, and sudden violence still stirred the blood of these now older and wiser men as they clustered together at old settlers' days and county fairs recounting days that would never pass again and yearning for a simpler life a world grown complex. "Cowboys," observed one novelist descended from a long and distinguished line of Texas cowpunchers, "are romantics, extreme romantics, and ninety-nine out of a hundred of them are sentimental to the core. They are oriented to the past and face the present only under duress, and then with extreme reluctance." 1 The trail drivers of Texas were no exception. As their numbers steadily declined, the history and folklore created by these drovers threatened to disappear as well.

11. Larry McMurtry, In a Narrow Grave (Austin: Encino Press, 1978), p. 149.


Alarmed at this prospect and determined to preserve for posterity the historical contributions of the trailriding cowboys, George W. Saunders, himself a veteran of the cattle trail, founded the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association in 1915. The new organization and the heavily attended annual reunions that it sponsored provided members with a sense of community and family as well as a place to reminisce. G. 0. Burrow, an active member of the association, remarked that in his old age "the only real enjoyment I have is our reunions of the Old Trail Drivers." Many others apparently felt the same, for during its first year of operation membership in the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association rose to 375 and represented several states. By 1921 the organizational rolls had swelled to more than 1,000.

At the annual convention held in San Antonio in 1917, a crowd estimated at between seven hundred and eight hundred individuals listened eagerly as George Saunders, president-elect of the body, unveiled a plan to publish a book compiled from the members' own recollections of droving. Saunders had been soliciting narratives for at least two years and many in the assembly enthusiastically volunteered to add their stories for publication. Responsibility for editing the volume was offered to A. C. Williams of Fort Worth, who was the assistant secretary of the Cattle Raisers' Association of Texas and editor of the Cattleman.

Problems that "would have tested the patience of Job," as Saunders later put it, plagued the enterprise from the beginning. Few drovers responded quickly, and most had to be cajoled into submitting their stories with follow-up telephone calls, telegrams, and letters. Moreover, neither Williams nor his successor, a columnist for the San Antonio Express, was able to complete the project. World War I intervened and, even more disastrous, the San Antonio firm hired to print the volume went bankrupt and disappeared with virtually all of the previously edited source material.

Undaunted, the determined Saunders embarked afresh on his task, soliciting orders at the 1920 convention for


a five-hundred-page volume to be delivered in August. Remembering J. Marvin Hunter, a newspaperman who had shown an earlier interest in the project, Saunders approached him on April 21, 1920, to complete the work. Hunter was dubious about his ability to finish the book in only three months' time. Besides, he had never been a cowboy, although his father had once driven the trail. He took the job, nevertheless, but only because he realized that "it would be a wonderful contribution to the historical annals of Texas, and that the time was ripe for its publication, as the older fellows are passing off the stage of action at an alarming rate and that within a few years not many would be left to tell the tale."

Not only was the time schedule incredibly tight but also the source material was almost wholly lacking. Beginning with thirty-five historical sketches that had arrived too late to be considered for the earlier planned book, Hunter went to work editing and lining up a competent printer while Saunders sought additional reminiscences. Routinely working late into the evening and never getting more than three or four hours' sleep a night, Hunter compiled and edited the steady stream of manuscript material brought him by Saunders. Each day he delivered his previous night's work to the Jackson Printing Company, where he picked up finished proofs to be read and corrected that night. Amazingly, Hunter met his deadline and delivered the completed book to Saunders on July 21. The $500 he received for his efforts paid the mortgage on the Hunter home in San Antonio.

The Trail Drivers of Texas was issued in an edition believed to have numbered a scant one thousand copies. Its favorable reception by association members encouraged Saunders and Hunter to produce an additional volume of perhaps five hundred copies in 1923. By this time Hunter had moved to Bandera, where he had established a small print shop with a linotype machine. "I printed this second volume," he would later write of the crudely produced


work, "but it was a piece of printing I was always ashamed of." 2 Following the issuance in 1924 of a corrected and revised version of the first volume with a second-edition imprint on the title page, the whole was combined in 1925 into a single volume of 1,060 pages by Cokesbury Press of Nashville, Tennessee, and presented as the second edition revised. This edition, which is reproduced here, contains information not included in the earlier volumes and thus comprises the best and most complete version to date.

Saunders intended that The Trail Drivers of Texas preserve the role played by the drovers in fulfilling the manifest destiny of the nation. "These pages sparkle," boasted the foreword to the work, "with the lustre of deeds well done by a passing generation, and it is our purpose to keep bright that lustre, that it may not pale with the fleeting years." Saunders vigorously defended the cowboys and drovers with whom he had been associated and frequently commented upon the sterling quality of their characters. Reacting to pulp portrayals of cowboys as wild and lawless brigands, he argued that only a small percentage actually became criminals and that the number was not proportionally greater than one from a comparable sample of college graduates would be. Similar sentiments permeate the volume. Typical was C. S. Broadbent's characterization of the cowboy as "generous, brave and ever ready to alleviate personal suffering, share his last crust, his blanket and often more important, his canteen. He spent his wages freely and not always wisely, and many became an easy prey to gambling and other low resorts. Some among them became leading men in law, art and science even in theology, proving again that it is not in the vocation but in the man, that causes him to blossom and bring a fruitage of goodness, honor and godly living."

Despite the facts that as many as six thousand former drovers may still have been living at the time Trail Drivers

22. J. Marvin Hunter, Peregrinations of a Pioneer Printer (Grand Prairie, Tex.: Frontier Times Publishing House, 1954), p. 172.


was being prepared and that a drovers' organization of more than a thousand members supported its publication, fewer than 350 individual entries comprise the largest edition of the book. First-person narratives of cattle droving account for less than half of the total number of articles while the rest of the contents can be divided into several broad categories. A number of first-person accounts, for example, relate various frontier experiences but do not touch on trail driving. Several other entries are reprinted from other published sources, including books and newspapers. A few poems also are sprinkled throughout the work. To this list may be added the various individuals who authored tributes to relatives or friends who drove north from Texas. By far the largest number of entries, however, were prepared by Hunter, who concerned himself primarily with portraying the lives of successful cowmen and businessmen rather than the average drover. Many of his subjects already had died. In order to stimulate reader interest, Hunter frequently tagged articles with exotic or sensational titles. For the same reason he included a number of colorful tales of Indian fighting and outlaws having little or nothing to do with droving.

A careful examination of the contents of the Cokesbury Press combined edition reveals some additional insights about the hurried conditions under which the volume was conceived and produced. The vast majority of first-person respondents lived in Texas with only about 6 percent residing outside the state and another 3 percent of unknown origin. Over 60 percent of the residents of the Lone Star State lived within 150 miles of San Antonio and only about 14 percent lived north of a line drawn east and west through Austin. Not surprisingly, the largest number of first-person droving narratives, about 21 percent of the total, came from persons living in San Antonio. Lockhart provided the next-largest number, just over 5 percent, followed by the towns of Del Rio, Pearsall, and Bartlett. The remainder were scattered throughout twenty-one other communities.

Trail Drivers contains many omissions and inaccuracies


and must therefore be used with caution as a historical resource. For example, George Saunders once estimated that one-third of the men who went up the trail were black or Hispanic, yet little attention is given in the volume to the contributions of these ethnic drovers. Rarely are they mentioned by name and relatively few Hispanics and only one black, George Glenn, figure prominently in any of the individual accounts. Most of the minor errors of fact are matters of questionable spelling and inconsistent dates. A few, however, are more serious. Perhaps the most stinging illustration occurs in the associational sanctioning of an erroneous identification of the route of the Chisholm Trail. Further problems exist in inconsistent organization, which J. Frank Dobie appropriately characterized as "chaotic." 3 The quality and the informational content of the articles also vary considerably. Some articles cover only a single trail drive while others are more detailed and comprehensive. Most tend to dwell on a few particularly colorful or otherwise memorable incidents. Despite these shortcomings, The Trail Drivers of Texas offers an interesting glimpse of trail life as well as some intriguing possibilities for cliometricians and prosopographers. By eliminating superfluous narratives and sampling the 157 legitimate first-person accounts of droving, a profile of the men who engaged in this occupation begins to emerge.

The birthplaces of slightly over 40 percent of the sample are unknown. Of those listing a place of birth, just over 40 percent were born in states other than Texas. Of these, Mississippi sired the largest number, followed by Missouri, Alabama, Tennessee, Ohio, Arkansas, and Kentucky. Foreign-born drovers numbered only four, Germany being the homeland of two and Poland and France one each. The Texas-born part of the sample hailed from twenty-five different counties, led by Caldwell, Travis, Montgomery,

33. J. Frank Dobie, Guide to Life and Literature in the Southwest (Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1943), p. 65.


and Gonzales. Nearly 60 percent of the first-person narratives mention a year of birth. The range of dates extends from 1833 to 1871, with over 80 percent occurring during the decades of 1840 and 1850. Perhaps surprisingly, only slightly more than 10 percent of the men mentioned their Civil War service and only one of these, Joseph Cotulla, identified himself as a Union Army veteran. These figures do not, however, count a significant number of individuals who may have served on the Indian frontier during the conflict.

C. W. Ackerman remembered that, on his first drive to Kansas in 1873, the oldest man in the crew was twenty-five while the rest ranged between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two. Indeed, trail drivers enjoyed a rigorous occupation full of privation and physical hardships that demanded the vigor of youth. While it is not possible to determine with any degree of reliability the age at which nearly half of the first-person cases took the trail north for the first time, about three out of four of the rest appear to have first taken the trail between the ages of sixteen and twenty- two. Another 20 percent embarked on their first drive at an older age, while only about 6 percent started younger. Many of the old drovers spoke of engaging in range work almost as soon as they could sit a saddle and one, A. D. McGehee, actually drove from Belton to Abilene in 1868 at the ripe old age of eleven.

The first-person accounts contained in Trail Drivers do not seem to bear out George Saunders' estimate that only about one-third of all drovers repeated the experience. Nearly three-quarters of those responding acknowledge participation in more than one drive and nearly 60 percent mention going up the trail more than twice. Only about 20 percent drove five years or longer and this number dwindled steadily to less than 5 percent at the end of a decade. William B. Slaughter reported the most trips, logging more than twenty.

Men or boys, these drovers regularly pushed Longhorn herds to dozens of different trail termini located in several


western states. Many of these cattle were destined for shipment to the beef packeries and butcher stalls of the industrial midwest and northeast. Other herds supplied Indian reservations and military posts through government contracts. Parts of a single drive might be sold or delivered at several different points. As might be expected, mention of Kansas trail heads dominates the accounts in Trail Drivers. Nebraska, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico, Indian Territory, and the Dakotas also are frequently listed, followed by Louisiana, Montana, Arizona, Oregon, Idaho, Missouri, Mississippi, Iowa, and Mexico.

As deliveries of cattle accelerated during the two decades that followed the Civil War, the droving labor force expanded rapidly to keep pace. Detractors seeking to debunk the mythical cowboy hero point out that the real puncher was merely a hired man on horseback. Indeed, on the range or trail the wages of cowhands rarely exceeded $30—$40 per month and most of the time were less. W. T. Bright reminisced that he had gathered many of the herds that eventually made their way north but that he never went himself because range work paid better than trailing. Besides, he reasoned, "I never liked to get up and herd cattle at night, so never had any desire to go to Kansas." Yet the cowboy experience was only a transient one for most before other jobs beckoned. Said F. M. Polk, another disgruntled ex-drover with loftier aspirations after his last trip up the trail, "On my way home I reviewed my past life as a cowboy from every angle and came to the conclusion that about all I had gained was experience, and I could not turn that into cash, so I decided I had enough of it, and made up my mind to go home, get married and settle down to farming."

Just under half of the first-person accounts in Trail Drivers reveal facts concerning drovers' posttrailing employment and occupational patterns. In an article written about the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association in 1921, theCattleman boasted, no doubt with some exaggeration, that "hundreds of them are now millionaires," adding perhaps


more truthfully, "but luck has not been with all of them." 4 There is, nevertheless, ample evidence that many trail drivers achieved some degree of upward mobility and that a few enjoyed a measure of real financial success. A survey of these narratives also reveals considerable diversity in occupational pursuits. Of those who mention their lives after droving a sizable percentage remained in ranch-related activities, from hand to manager to owner, or engaged in stock farming. Some ex-drovers, such as "Lead Steer" Jack Potter, ended up with substantial holdings in land and cattle. Perhaps a greater number emulated the experience of E. L. Brouson, who, after quitting the trail in the 1880s, acquired a small herd of his own. Brouson went broke in 1903 and repeated the experience so many times that he eventually lost count. Several former cowboys transferred their skills and experience to the stockyards, where they became commission merchants and livestock shipping agents for railroads. At least one put his talents to use in the show arena, where he performed with a wild west show.

The pursuits of those who left the range for jobs in cities and towns were even more diverse. A fuel dealer, a marble yard operator, a ginner, and an undertaker may be counted besides the more common occupations, such as merchant, hotel owner, and butcher. Several trail drivers eventually became financiers. This group included men like J. B. Pumphrey, who made five trips up the trail during the 1870s, and George F. Hindes, a Confederate veteran who delivered herds to Kansas and Wyoming for a decade after 1872. A number of others were like S. H. Woods, Duval County judge between 1896 and 1915, and held such public offices as district attorney, county commissioner, sheriff, marshal, postmaster, city councilman, and Texas Ranger.

The paucity of marriage statistics in Trail Drivers makes it difficult to arrive at any meaningful conclusions as to the effects the institution may have had upon the lifestyle of the

44. "The Story of the Old Trail Drivers," Cattleman 7 (March 1921): 216.


drovers. Nearly 70 percent of the first-person accounts do not mention a wife. From the relatively small sample of those remaining, it appears that the economic and social responsibilities of that institution curtailed many droving careers. About one-half of the married men quit droving before or during the year of their marriage. And while only about 20 percent continued droving some did so for more than a decade. The status of the rest is uncertain.

George Saunders, in summarizing the accomplishments and strong character of his droving associates, pauses to acknowledge the contributions of women to the winning of the West. At one point in Trail Drivers he quotes several pages from J. M. Hunter's book A Pioneer History of Bandera County, which noted, ". . . it is only proper that we should record some encouraging word to her aspirations and advocate her claims to a just and proper place in the history of our great state." Women are treated with reverence and respect throughout Trail Drivers. Several females contributed articles about life on the frontier or wrote tributes to loved ones. Others figure prominently in such stories. Hunter, for example, included the story of Mrs. Lou Gore, the operator of Drover's Cottage, an Abilene, Kansas, hotel frequented by Texas cowboys during the heyday of the town as a cattle shipping point. The popular Mrs. Gore became an honorary member of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association and was invited to the 1924 reunion. Hunter also wrote several short biographical sketches of the wives and daughters of well-known cattlemen.

Not all the trail drivers of Texas were men. The accounts of several women who took the trail also grace the volume. Samuel Dunn Houston recounted the story of a girl who, dressed as a man, joined his trail crew for four months in 1888 on a drive between New Mexico and Colorado. Association member Amanda Burks of Cotulla provided a detailed description of a trip up the trail with her husband's herd to Newton, Kansas, in 1871, and Mrs. William B. Slaughter wrote ably of an 1896 trail excursion between Fort Sumner, New Mexico, and Liberal, Kansas.


(Else-where in the volume, her husband remembered the same trip as having taken place in 1901 between Clifton, Arizona, and Liberal.) Mrs. Sallie M. Redus also briefly mentioned a journey she and her baby made with a trail crew.

In Clio's Cowboys, a volume critical of the historiography of the range cattle industry, author Don Walker calls The Trail Drivers of Texas the "richest storehouse of historical information" 5 about droving and cowboy life written by the participants themselves. He notes the tendency among stockmen during the late nineteenth century, when "moved by a sense of the past," 6 to reflect on their past lives. He warns, however, that a sense of the past and a sense of history are two different things and cautions that "what purports to be a history of the trail and ranch life is often a selective, nostalgic memory." 7 Walker encourages historians to penetrate the myths of sentimentality, lore, and legend in order to get closer to the truth.

Certainly, The Trail Drivers of Texas reeks of "good old days" sentimentality. Part of the nostalgia most probably stems from the disorientation that some drovers may have felt at the passing of their way of life. C. H. Rust of San Angelo, who drove the trail during the 1870s, spoke for many of his genre when he wrote: "I turn my face west. I see the red lines of the setting sun, but I do not hear the echo come back, 'Go west, young man, go west.' I turn my face east and I hear the dull thud of the commercialized world marching west, with its steam roller procession, to roll over me and flatten me out." Not all expressed such pessimism about the future. One greeted the rapid advances in communications and transportation affecting twentieth-century Texas almost eagerly when he remarked, "May we not venture to predict that in another sixty years somebody will have established a trail to Mars or other

55. Don D. Walker, Clio's Cowboys (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1981), p. 101.

66. Ibid., p. 47.

77. Ibid., p. 102.


planets, and our descendents may be signalling the latest market quotations to the cowmen of those parts?"

Despite its many weaknesses, historians, bibliographers, and cowboys themselves have always rated The Trail Drivers of Texas as one of the finest works ever produced on the cattle industry. Shortly after the publication of the second edition of the first volume, the Cattleman called it "a book that is destined to become a classic of its kind" and "the `Bible' of every old time Texas cowpuncher." 8 More recently, one bibliographer termed it "an essential foundation book for any range library." 9

George Saunders hoped that the sales of the volume would help fund the erection of a major granite monument in Brackenridge Park in San Antonio, commemorating the early Texas pioneers. Although he believed that the necessary funds could be raised as early as 1924, Saunders' campaign to raise $30, 000 for the marker still was incomplete at the time of his death following a lengthy illness on July 3, 1933. The year before, the seventy-eight—year—old cowman had led about twenty-five of his old comrades to the site of Doan's Crossing of the Red River, where they placed a marker commemorating the old trail drivers. Saunders' body lay in state in the Municipal Auditorium at San Antonio before funeral services commenced at the First Baptist Church. A multitude of floral arrangements, one of them from Will Rogers, covered and surrounded the casket. Spurs, a quirt, a rope, and a bandana replaced the flowers at the graveside services as the old trail driver went out in style to the strains of "Rounded Up in Glory," a favorite cowboy hymn.

George Saunders never lived to see the marble-and-granite monument of his dreams. A smaller one honoring

88. "The Story of the Old Trail Drivers," p. 218.

99. William S. Reese, Six Score: The 120 Best Books on the Range Cattle Industry (Austin: Jenkins Publishing Company in Cooperation with Frontier America Corporation), p. 45.


him and the others who "pointed them north" eventually was placed at a site in front of what is now the Old Trail Drivers' Museum in San Antonio. But in a sense it does not matter. Saunders and his publishing partner, J. Marvin Hunter, already had left a far more substantial legacy embodied in The Trail Drivers of Texas.

B. Byron Price
Panhandle-Plains Historical Museum
Canyon, Texas




This volume is brought forth to present a link in the long chain of Texas history that cannot well be spared if the record is "kept straight," and posterity is given a true account of the deeds of daring and heroism of the early pioneers of our great state. The characters mentioned in this book are men of sterling worth and integrity, as has been proven in every instance wherein they came in contact with the problems and difficulties that made for the development of an empire so vast in its possibilities as to excite the envy of the world. These pages sparkle with the lustre of deeds well done by 'a passing generation, and it is our purpose to keep bright that lustre, that it may not pale with the fleeting years.

The men and women, the pioneers who blazed the way for the present-day civilization, happiness and prosperity in Texas, are looked upon with the greatest respect and veneration. Fifty years ago the Indian, the buffalo and the deer roamed at will over the Texas prairies. A half century now intervenes, but today prosperous cities dot the green distances and men and women who thirty-five and forty years ago drifted to the great and boundless West with hardly a penny are today wealthy and "in the saddle" in the State's affairs. They endured many privations. They fought for what they believed was right. They blazed the trail. The people of today, the younger generation, are not unmindful of what the early settlers


did for them, and as they enjoy the splendid prosperity that is theirs they silently thank the earlier ones.

To the memory of the old trail drivers, the Texas pioneers— to the heroic mothers, fathers—to the young and the brave who fought manfully for proud, imperial Texas, this volume is lovingly dedicated.


  1. Explanatory 1
  2. Organization of The Old Time Trail Drivers' Association 4
  3. Minutes of The Annual Reunion of The Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, Held in San Antonio, Texas, September 10th and 11th, 1919 1 17
  4. Origin and Close of The Old-time Northern Trail 20
  5. The Pumphrey Brothers' Experience on the Trail. By J. B. Pumphrey, Taylor, Texas, and R. B. Pumphrey of San Antonio 26
  6. Dodging Indians near Packsaddle Mountains. By E. A. (Berry) Robuck, Lockhart, Texas 32
  7. Fought Indians on the Trail. By Henry Ramsdale, Sabinal, Texas 37
  8. Location of The Old Chisholm Trail. By C. H. Rust, San Angelo, Texas 37
  9. What Has Become of The Old-fashioned Boy? By C. H. Rust, San Angelo, Texas 41
  10. Cyclones, Blizzards, High Water, Stampedes and Indians on the Trail. By G. H. Mohle, Lockhart, Texas 42
  11. Mistaken for Cole Younger and Arrested. By S. A. Hickock, Karnes City, Texas, 45
  12. A Thorny Experience. By. S. A. Brite, Pleasanton, Texas 47
  13. A Trip to California. By Jeff M. White, Pleasanton, Texas 48
  14. Raised on the Frontier. By Walter Smith, Del Rio, Texas 52
  15. Drove a Herd over the Trail to California. By W. E. Cureton, Meridian, Texas 53
  16. Parents Settled in the Republic of Texas. By Joseph S. Cruze, Sr , Antonio, Texas 57
  17. Coming up the Trail in 1882. By Jack Potter, Kenton, Oklahoma 58
  18. When a Girl Masqueraded as a Cowboy and Spent Four Months on the Trail. By Samuel Dunn, Houston, San Antonio, Texas 71
  19. A Trying Trip Alone through the Wilderness. By Samuel Dunn Houston, San Antonio, Texas 78
  20. First Camp Meeting in Grayson County. By Z. N. Morell 88
  21. Seven Trips up the Trail. By J. F. Ellison, Fort Cobb, Oklahoma 92
  22. The Old Trailers 93
  23. Killing and Capturing Buffalo in Kansas. By M. A. Withers, Lockhart, Texas 96
  24. On the Trail to Nebraska. By Jeff. D. Farris, Bryan, Texas 104


  1. Echoes of the Cattle Trail. By Jerry M. Nance, Kyle, Texas 105
  2. Reminiscences of Old Trail Driving. By J. M. Hankins, San Antonio, Texas 111
  3. Got " Wild and Woolly " on the Chisholm Trail. By J. N. Byler, Dallas, Texas 114
  4. With Herds to Colorado and New Mexico. By G. W. Scott of Uvalde, Texas 115
  5. Recollections of Old Trail Days. By B. A. Borroum, Del Rio, Texas 117
  6. High-heeled Boots and Striped Breeches. By G. O. Burrows, Del Rio, Texas 120
  7. Sixty Years in Texas. By William J. Bennett, Pearsall, Texas 121
  8. The Good Old Cowboy Days. By Luther A. Lawhon 124
  9. Courage and Hardihood on the Old Cattle Trail. Sketch of Sal West 126
  10. Lived on the Frontier during Indian Times. By Joe F. Spettel, Rio Medina, Texas 132
  11. Made a Long Trip to Wyoming. By H. D. Gruene, Goodwin, Texas 135
  12. Played Pranks on the Tenderfoot. By Henry D. Steele, San Antonio, Texas 137
  13. When a Man's Word was as Good as a Gilt-edged Note. By George N. Steen, Bryan, Texas 139
  14. My Experience on the Cow Trail. By F. M. Polk, Luling, Texas 140
  15. Punching Cattle on the Trail to Kansas. By W. D. Hardeman, Devine, Texas 146
  16. Exciting Experiences on the Frontier and on the Trail. By C. W. Ackerman, San Antonio, Texas 151
  17. Observations and Experiences of Bygone Days. By Louis Schorp, Rio Medina, Texas 159
  18. Met Quanah Parker on the Trail. By John Wells Bartlett, Texas 162
  19. Texas Cowboys at a Circus in Minneapolis. By S. H. Woods, Alice, Texas 169
  20. The Remarkable Career of Colonel Ike T. Pryor 173
  21. Habits and Customs of Early Texas. By L. B. Anderson, Seguin, Texas 182
  22. Hit the Trail in High Places. By Jeff Connolly, Lockhart, Texas 187
  23. The Men Who Made the Trail. By Luther A. Lawhon, San Antonio, Texas 193
  24. A Few Thrilling Incidents in My Experience on the Trail. By L. B. Anderson, Seguin, Texas 203
  25. Memories of the Old Cow Trail. By C. H. Rus, San Angelo, Texas 207
  26. Established the First Packing Plant in Texas. Sketch of W. S. Hall, Comfort, Texas 212
  27. Trail Driving to Kansas and Elsewhere. W. F. Cude, San Antonio, Texas 214
  28. When Lightning Set the Grass on Fire. By George W. Brock, Lockhart, Texas 219
  29. "Big Cowboy Ball" 226
  30. Did You Ever Do the Square? By James Barton Adams 226


  1. Experiences "Tenderfeet" Could Not Survive. By G. W. Mills, Lockhart, Texas 228
  2. Killing of "Billy the Kid." By Fred E. Sutton, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 240
  3. His Father Made Fine "Bowie" Knives. By John James Haynes, San Antonio, Texas 243 1
  4. Three Times Up the Trail. By W. E. Laughlin, Bartlett, Texas 248
  5. Will Build a Ten-story Marble Hotel in San Antonio. Sketch of John Young, Alpine, Texas 248
  6. When Ab. Blocker Climbed a Fence. By G. M. Carson, Rocksprings, Texas 251
  7. Found a Lot of Snuff on the Trail. By J. A. Blythe, Del Rio, Texas 252
  8. Eight Trips Up the Trail. By A. N. Eustace, Prairie Lea, Texas 253
  9. A Long Time between Drinks. By Sam Neill, La Pryor, Texas 236
  10. Scouting and Routing in the Good Old Days. By J. M. Custer, alias Bill Wilson 257
  11. Catching Antelope and Buffalo on the Trail. By A. Huffmeyer, San Antonio, Texas 261
  12. The Old Trail Driver. By Branch Isabell, Odessa, Texas 266
  13. Drove a Herd to Mississippi and Alabama. By W. D. H. Saunders, San Antonio, Texas 267
  14. "Trail Life." By James Gibson, Alice, Texas 269
  15. An Indian Battle near the Leona River. By L. A. Franks, Pleasanton, Texas 274
  16. Jack Potter, the "Fighting Parson." By John Warren Hunter 278
  17. The Chisholm Trail. By Fred Sutton, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma 289
  18. Preferred to Take Older Cattle Up the Trail. By Thomas 'Welder, Beeville, Texas 293
  19. A Woman Trail Driver. By Mrs. A. Burks, Cotulla, Texas 295
  20. The Experience of an Old Trail Driver. By Richard (Dick) Withers, Boyes, Montana 305
  21. Cornbread and Clabber Made a Good Meal. By Joseph Cotulla, Cotulla, Texas 317
  22. One of the Best-known Trail Drivers. Sketch of John R. Blocker, Big Wells, Texas 319
  23. Captain John T. Lytle 322
  24. J. D.Jackson 324
  25. T. A. Coleman 325
  26. Twice Across the Plains in Fourteen Months. By Joe S. Clark, Orange Grove, Texas 326
  27. John Z. Means 327
  28. George W. Evans 328
  29. Cowboy Life in West Texas 329
  30. Days Gone By. By Hiram G. Craig, Brenham 335
  31. Captain Charles Schreiner, Kerrville, Texas 359
  32. The Early Cattle Days in Texas. By A. W. Capt, San Antonio, Texas 362


  1. The Cost of Moving a Herd to Northern Markets. By Col. Ike Pryor, San Antonio, Texas 367
  2. Lost Twenty-one Thousand Dollars on One Drive. By John S. Kritzer,, Taylor, Texas 368
  3. Mose Wesley Hays 272
  4. The Platte was Like a Ribbon in the Sunshine. By J. W. Jackson, Bartlett, Texas 374
  5. Put up Five Hundred Steers to Secure Three Hundred Dollars. By E. L. Brounson, Sample, Texas 376
  6. Some Interesting Things Seen on the Cattle Trail. By John B. Conner, Yoakum, Texas 378
  7. When "Louisiana" Came to Texas. By T. M. Turner, San Antonio, Texas 380
  8. Made Several Trips up The Trail. By N. L. Word, Alice, Texas 383
  9. Probably the Oldest Feeder in Texas. By R. F. Sellers, Mathis, Texas 384
  10. Up the Trail to Northern New Mexico. By L. A. Franks, Pleasanton, Texas 387
  11. The Son of a Well-known Trail Driver. By Robert Farmer Jennings, San Antonio, Texas 388
  12. When George Saunders Made a Bluff "Stick." By T. T. Hawkins, Charlotte, Texas 390
  13. Put Many Herds up for D. R. Fant. By Thomas M. Hodges, Junction, Texas 397
  14. The Milk of Human Kindness is Drying Up. By George F. Hindes, Pearsall, Texas 398
  15. Took Time to Visit His Sweetheart. By H. C. Williams. San Antonio, Texas 403
  16. Reminiscences of the Trail. By Jasper (Bob) Lauderdale 404
  17. From Texas to the Oregon Line. By W. A. Peril, Harper, Texas 411
  18. An Old Frontiersman Tells His Experience. By Joe Chapman, Benton, Texas 413
  19. Parents were among Early Colonists. By Henry Fest, San Antonio, Texas 419
  20. Phil L. Wright 423
  21. Reflections of the Trail. By George W. Saunders, San Antonio, Texas 426
  22. Mrs. Lou Gore 454
  23. Buried a Cowboy in a Lonely Grave on the Prairie. By Alfred Iverson (Babe) Moye, Kenedy, Texas 455
  24. Some Things I Saw Long Ago. By George Gerdes 459
  25. Ate Stolen Meat, Anyway. By Jim Wilson, Alpine, Texas 464
  26. When a Boy Bossed a Herd. Sketch of J. D. Jackson, Alpine, Texas 466
  27. Spent a Hard Winter near Red Cloud. By D. S. Combs, San Antonio, Texas 467
  28. Experiences of the Trail and Otherwise. By M. J. Ripps, San Antonio, Texas 470
  29. Sketch of Col. J. F. Ellison. By J. F. Ellison, Jr., Fort Cobb, Okla-homa 476


  1. Sixty-eight Years in Texas. By Pleasant Burnell Butler, Kenedy, Texas 479
  2. My First Five-dollar Bill. By J. L. McCaleb, Carrizo Springs, Texas 484
  3. Slaked Their Thirst in a Dry Town. By A. D. McGehee, San Marcos, Texas 488
  4. Lived in San Antonio at Time of Woll's Invasion. By George W. West, Jourdanton, Texas 490
  5. Got Their Names in the Pot for Supper and Breakfast. By E. M. (Mac) Stoney, Lockhart, Texas 491
  6. Settled on the Frontier of Texas. Sketch of Ed B. English of Carrizo Springs 494
  7. Some Thrilling Experiences of an Old Trailer. By L. D. Taylor, San Antonio, Texas 498
  8. The Man Who Had Hell in His Neck. By Ab. Blocker, San Antonio, Texas 504
  9. My Third and Last Trip Up the Trail in 1886. By R. J. Jennings, San Antonio, Texas 513
  10. Sketch of Colonel Dillard R. Fant 515
  11. Relates of a Trip Made in 1872. By M. L. Bolding, Bartlett, Texas 518
  12. Paid Three Dollars for Five Gallons of Water. By Sam Garner, Lockhart, Texas 519
  13. Listened to the Chant of the Night Songs. By I. H. Elder, Sanderson, Texas 523
  14. Sketch of L. B. Allen 524
  15. Had Less Trouble with Indians than with the Grangers on .the Trail. By J. E. Pettus, Goliad, Texas 525
  16. My Trip up the Trail. By W. E. Thompson, Pearsall, Texas 527
  17. Richard King 529
  18. Drove Cattle for Doc Burnett. By L. Beasley, Junction, Texas 530
  19. Worked with Cattle for Over Sixty Years. By E. M. (Bud) Daggett, Fort Worth, Texas 531
  20. Made First Trip in 1877. By D. B. Sherrill, Rocksprings, Texas 533
  21. Cowboys Dressed Up at End of Trail. By R. J. Jennings, San Antonio, Texas 534
  22. A Tenderfoot from Kentucky. By J. D. Jackson 536
  23. A True Story of Trail Days 537
  24. Traveling The Trail with Good Men was a Pleasure. By J. F. (Little Jim) Ellison, Jr., Fort Cobb, Oklahoma 538
  25. Had Plenty of Fun. By Gus Black, Eagle Pass, Texas 541
  26. Slumbered through the Shooting. By H. H. Peel, Jourdanton, Texas 544
  27. Another Successful Cowman. By J. B. Murrah, San Antonio, Texas 546
  28. The Real Cowboy. By Beulah Rust Kirkland, Phoenix, Arizona 547
  29. Cowboy from the Plains of Nebraska. By V. F. Carvajal 549
  30. Echoes of the 1916 Convention 551
  31. Early Days in Texas. By J. T. Hazlewood 555
  32. Worked for Geo. W. Saunders in 1875. By L. T. Clark, Quanah, Texas 561
  33. Was Freighter and Trail Driver. By. J. M. Cowley, Fentress, Texas. . 564


  1. Sold Cattle in Natchez for $4.50 a Head. By A. E. Scheske, Gonzales, Texas 566
  2. Days That Were Full of Thrills. By Branch Isbell, Odessa, Texas 571
  3. Some Trips Up the Trail. By J. M. Garner. Texarkana, Arkansas 585
  4. Thrilling Experiences. By Levi J. Harkey, Sinton, Texas 588
  5. Noted Quantrell Was with Herd on Trail. By Dr. J. W. Hargus of Dimmit County 590
  6. Lost Thousands of Dollars. By C. S. Broadbent, San Antonio, Texas 592
  7. Were Happier in Good OM Days. By Oscar Thompson, Hebronville, Texas 595
  8. Latch String is on the Outside. By R. T. Mellard, Eddy County, New Mexico 595
  9. Dedicated to the Memory of W. J. Edwards. By E. M. Edwards, San Antonio, Texas 602
  10. Lived in Live Oak County Many Years. By W. M. Shannon, Lytle, Texas 604
  11. William James Slaughter 607
  12. James Alfred M cFaddin 611
  13. An Old Cow Hand. By John Pat Ryan 617
  14. William C. Irwin 619
  15. Lee L. Russell 621
  16. Thomas B. Saunders 623
  17. Ate Terrapin and Dog Meat and was Glad to Get it. By Ben Drake, South Antonio, Texas 624
  18. Gives Some Early Texas History. By W. F. Cude, Pearsall, Texas 627
  19. Drove Horses to Mississippi. By F. G. Crawford, Oakville, Texas 633
  20. When Jim Dobie Lost His Pants. By E. S. Boatwright, Falfurrius, Texas 635
  21. Sketch of Col. J. J. Meyers 637
  22. Came over from Germany in 1870. By F. Cornelius, Midfield, Texas 642
  23. A Faithful Negro Servant. By J. E. Folts, Columbus, Texas 645
  24. Grazed on Many Ranges. By T. J. Garner, Loveland, Colorado 646
  25. John H. Ross Was a Bronco Buster 651
  26. Has Had an Eventful Career. By William B. Krempkau, San Antonio, Texas 651
  27. No Room in the Tent for Polecats. By W. B. Foster, San Antonio, Texas 655
  28. Garland G. Odom 661
  29. Reminiscences of an Old Trail Driver. By John C. Jacobs, San Antonio, Texas 662
  30. "Chawed" the Earmarks. By J. G. Thompson, Devine, Texas 666
  31. James Madison Chittim 668
  32. A Big Mix-up. By W. M. Nagiller, Williams, Arizona 669
  33. George T. Reynolds 670
  34. Colonel Albert G. Boyce 672
  35. Born in a Log Cabin. By G. O. Burrow, Del Rio, Texas 673


  1. Sixty Years in Texas Around Good Old San Antonio. By Jesse M. Kilgore, San Antonio, Texas 674
  2. Hardships of a Winter Drive. By Alf. Beadle, North Pleasanton, Texas 678
  3. Mont Woodward Was a Friend. By G. O. Burrow, Del Rio, Texas 680
  4. Dream was Realized. By Charlie Bargsley, San Antonio, Texas 682
  5. When He Got Big Enough to Fight the Indians were Gone. By W. T. (Bill) Brite, Leming, Texas 684
  6. Fifty Cents a Day Was Considered Good Pay. By Louis and Joseph Chorp, Rio Medina, Texas 686
  7. When the Elements Wept and Shed Tears. By W. F. Fielder 687
  8. Sketch of Captain James D. Reed. By Lou Best Porter, Mountainair, New Mexico 690
  9. A Tribute to the Character of William Buckner Houston. By Thomas H. Lewis 691
  10. Served with Lee and Jackson. By J. B. C. Harkness, Pearsall, Texas 696
  11. Harrowing Experiences with Jayhawkers. By J. M. Daugherty, Daugherty, Texas 696
  12. Major George W. Littlefield 700
  13. Kidnapped the Inspectors. By Leo Tucker, Yoakum, Texas 702
  14. David C. Pryor 706
  15. Helped Drive Indians Out of Brown County. By J. W. Driskill, Sabinal, Texas 707
  16. Robert E. Stafford 708
  17. Lafayette Ward 710
  18. Thomas Jefferson Moore 712
  19. William G. Butler 715
  20. Seth Mabry 718
  21. J. D. Murrah Caught the Measles. By Dan Murrah, Del Rio, Texas 718
  22. Medina County Pioneer. By Xavier Wanz, Castroville, Texas 719
  23. Experiences of a Texas Pioneer. By John M. Sharpe 721
  24. W. A. (Buck) Pettus 730
  25. R. G. (Dick) Head 734
  26. Sketch of J. M. Choate 736
  27. W. M. Choate 738
  28. Crossed the Arkansas River in a Skiff. By J. H. Saul 739
  29. When Temperature Was 72 Degrees Below Zero. By C. C. French, Fort Worth, Texas 741
  30. History of an Old Cowman 743
  31. Indians Got Their Horses. By W. H. Crain, Pipe Creek, Texas 746
  32. George Webb Slaughter 749
  33. Thomas M. Peeler 759
  34. Hardships of a Cowboy's Life in the Early Days in Texas. By James T. Johnson, Charco, Texas 760
  35. Associated with Frank James. By Sam H. Nunneley, San Antonio, Texas 763
  36. The Tankersley Family. By Mary Tankersley Lewis, San Angelo, Texas 764
  37. Trail Driving was Fascinating. By W. A. Roberts, Frio Town, Texas. . 767


  1. Followed Cattle from the Ranch to the Shipping Pen. By Mrs. A. P. Betcher, Del Rio, Texas 768
  2. Tells of an Indian Fight. By W. A. Franks, Pearsall, Texas 769
  3. Reminiscences of the Old Trails. By C. F. Doan of Doan's 772
  4. Made Many Trips up the Old Cow Trail. By E. P. Byler, Wadsworth, Texas 779
  5. Fifty Years Ago. By J. J. (Joe) Roberts, Del Rio, Texas 785
  6. P. E. Slaughter 786
  7. Sketch of the Life of Captain J. J. (Jack) Cureton. By W. E. Cureton, Meridian, Texas 788
  8. Trail Recollections of George W. Elam 792
  9. Tells About Bob Robertson. By W. B. Hardeman, Devine, Texas 795
  10. "Doc" Burnett 796
  11. Ben C. Drago 797
  12. An Old Trail Driver 797
  13. Richard Robertson Russell 800
  14. From the Nueces to the North Platte. By J. R. Humphries, Yoakum, Texas 802 1
  15. A Long, Hard Trip 807
  16. A. P. Rachal 809
  17. D. C. Rachal 810
  18. Frank S. Rachal 811
  19. John Redus. By Mrs. Sallie McLamore Redus 811
  20. James David Farmer 813
  21. A Well-known Frontier Character 814
  22. Alonzo Millett 815
  23. Three Comrade Cowpunchers 817
  24. Could Ride a Hundred Miles a Day. By C. E. Johnson, Charco, Texas 817
  25. Ranson Capps 819
  26. Why I am a Prohibitionist. By George F. Hindus, Pearsall, Texas 821
  27. Fifty Years a Policeman 825
  28. Trailed 'Em Across Red River. By Gus Staples, Skidmore, Texas 829
  29. Was in a Railroad Wreck. By John B. Conner, Yoakum, Texas 829
  30. The Rutledge Brothers 832
  31. Jesse Presnall 834
  32. George W. West 834
  33. Played the Fiddle on Head at Night 836
  34. Reminiscences of the Trail. By A. F. Carvajal, San Antonio, Texas 839
  35. James Dobie 842
  36. Made Several Trips up the Trail. By R. J. Jennings, San Antonio, Texas 843
  37. Charles de Montel, Jr 843
  38. Was in Packsaddle Mountain Fight. By N. G. Ozment 844
  39. The Cowboy's Prayer 849
  40. Where They Put a Trail Boss in Jail. By W. T. (Bill) Jackman, San Marcos, Texas 851
  41. Made Several Trips. By Joe P. Smith, Click, Texas 862


  1. Relates Incidents of Many Drives. By William Baxter Slaughter, San Antonio, Texas 863
  2. A Pioneer Mother's Experience. By Mrs. Kate Cruze, San Antonio, Texas 874
  3. A Cowboy Undertaker. By W. K. Shipman, San Antonio, Texas 881
  4. Captured Three Thousand Quarts 883
  5. Would Like to Go Again. By Webster Witter, Beeville, Texas 884
  6. My Experience on the Trail. By Mrs. W. B. Slaughter, San Antonio, Texas 885
  7. Ed C. Lasater 886
  8. The Pluck of a Poor German Boy. By B. Vesper, Big. Wells, Texas 889
  9. Mrs. Ike T. Pryor 895
  10. Mrs. George W. Saunders 898
  11. Col. C. C. Slaughter . 900
  12. M. Halff 901
  13. Daniel Oppenheimer 902
  14. The Killing of Oliver Loving. By Charles Goodnight, Goodnight, Texas 903
  15. W. J. Wilson's Narrative 908
  16. Cyrus B. Lucas 913
  17. John J. Little 914
  18. William Henry Jennings 915
  19. John B. Slaughter 917
  20. Dennis O'Connor 922
  21. Shangai Pierce 923
  22. J. D. Houston 924
  23. Bob Houston 925
  24. Jess McCoy 926
  25. On the Fort Worth and Dodge City Trail. By T. J. Burkett, Sr , Texas 926
  26. Character Impersonation 930
  27. My Early Days in Good Old San Antonio. By John A. Miller, Bandera, Texas 933
  28. Captain A. C. Jones. By George W. Saunders 936
  29. Captain Henry Scott. By George W. Saunders 938
  30. Oscar Fox. Composer of Cowboy Songs 939
  31. A. W. Billingsley, Wife, and Son 940
  32. John and Thomas Dewees. By George W. Saunders 940
  33. Came to Texas in 1838. By Mrs. H. C. Mayes, Carlsbad, Texas 942
  34. A Long, Dry Drive 943
  35. Chaplain J. Stewart Pearce 947
  36. Martin and Joe O'Connor 948
  37. Father Received a Premium for Best Corn. By C. E. Austin, Nixon, Texas 948
  38. Son of a Trail Driver. By Harry H. Williams, San Antonio, Texas 949
  39. More About the Chisholm Trail. By Charles Goodnight, Goodnight, Texas 950


  1. Now a Member of Congress. By Claude Hudspeth, El Paso, Texas 953
  2. Captain Mifflin Kenedy 954
  3. John G. Kenedy 957
  4. Felix M. Shaw 958
  5. A Log of the Trails. By George W. Saunders, Texas 959
  6. Thomas H. Shaw 971
  7. E. B. Flowers 974
  8. Experiences of a Ranger and Scout. By A. M. (Gus) Gildea, Deming, N. M 975
  9. Got a Tail-hold and Held on. By R. F. Galbreath, Devine, Texas 986
  10. The Poet of the Range 988
  11. The Old "Square Dance" of the Western Range 988
  12. James B. Gillett 995
  13. A Few Bars in the Key of G 998
  14. The Morris Family 1003
  15. One Trip Up the Trail. By B. D. Lindsey, San Antonio, Texas 1003
  16. No Friends Like the Old Trail Drivers. By G. M. Carson, Rocksprings, Texas 1007
  17. Dock Burris was Well Known 1009
  18. Was in Captain Sansom's Company. By J. W. Minear, San Antonio, Texas 1017
  19. Al. N. McFaddin 1019
  20. Ira C. Jennings 1020
  21. A Trip to Kansas in 1870. By W. R. Massengale, Rio Frio, Texas 1021
  22. From the "Historian of the Plains" 1025
  23. The Trail Drivers of Texas. By Maude Clark Hough, New York City 1027
  24. Made Early Drives. By D. H. Snyder, Georgetown, Texas 1029
  25. Rather Confusing 1031
  26. James Washington Walker 1032
  27. Andrew G. Jones 1035
  28. Four Bandera Pioneers 1040
  29. In Conclusion 1042
  30. Index 1045
^M ^M


Before the advent of railroads the marketing of cattle was a problem that confronted the man who undertook the raising of cattle in Texas. The great expanse of unsettled domain was ideal for the business. No wire fences were here to limit the range, grass was knee high, and cattle roamed freely over the hills, valleys and prairies of Texas. The long-horn was in the hey-day of his glory. The limitless range, broken by no barrier, extending from the Gulf to Kansas, offered ample opportunities for the man with nerve and determination in this great out-of-doors. There being no fences he allowed his cattle to scatter over the range, but at times he would round them up and throw them back in the vicinity of the home ranch when they strayed too far away. In the spring the big round-ups" usually took place, when all of the cowmen of each section would participate, coming together at a stated time, gathering all of the cattle on the range, and branding what was rightfully theirs. Be it said to their credit, those early cowmen seldom claimed animals that belonged to a neighbor. If a cow was found unbranded, and there was any evidence that she belonged to some cowman not present, or who lived over in the "next neighborhood," the owner was notified and usually got his cow. There was a noticeable absence of greed in those days in the cattle business, for the men who chose that means of livelihood were of that whole-souled,


hearted type that established a rule of "live and let live," and where a man was suspected of being a thief he was watched and if the suspicions were realized that man found that particular neighborhood to be a mighty unhealthy place to live in. Being sparsely settled in those early days, the ranches being from ten to fifty miles apart, counties unorganized and courts very few, every man in a way was a "law unto himself," so that speedy justice was meted out to offenders whose deeds were calculated to encourage lawlessness.

Gradually the country began to settle up with people, some coming from other states to establish homes in the great Lone Star State, and in the course of time the cattle industry became the leading industry in this region. Farming was not thought of, more than to raise a little corn for bread. Beef was to be had for the asking, or wild game for the killing. Mustangs furnished mounts for the cowman, and these horses proved their value as an aid to the development of the cattle industry. A good rider could break a mustang to the saddle in a very short time, and for endurance these Spanish ponies had no equal. Then loomed the problem of finding a market for the ever-increasing herds of cattle that were being produced in South and Southwest Texas. In this state there was no demand for the beef and hides of the long-horn, but in other states where the population was greater the beeves were needed. Then it was that some far-seeing cowman conceived the idea of getting his cattle to where the demand existed, so it was that trail-driving started. A few herds were driven to Abilene, Kansas, on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa F4 Railroad, and the venture proved so successful financially that before a great while everybody began to send their cattle "up the trail." These drives were not unattended by many dangers, as a great portion of the route was through a region infested by hostile Indians, and many times the redskins carried off the scalps of venturesome cowboys.


For many years the trail-driving continued, or until those great arteries of commerce, the railroads, began to penetrate the stock-raising region, and then gradually the cowpuncher, whose delight was to ride his pony "up the trail," was deprived of that privilege, and now instead he goes along with a trainload to "tail 'em up" when the cattle get down in a stock car.

With the passing of the trail came a better breed of cattle, the long-horn gave place to the short-horn white face Hereford, less vicious and unruly. The free range passed away, wire fences came as a new era set in, with the encroachment of civilization. The Texas cowmen formed an association with regular annual conventions, where ways and means for the improvement and betterment of their business were devised. These gatherings are a source of much pleasure to the old-time stockmen, and it was at one of these conventions a few years ago that George W. Saunders suggested that an auxiliary association of old-time trail drivers be formed, to be composed of men who "went up the trail" in those early days. But inasmuch as such an association would detract from the usual business transacted at the meetings of the parent association it was eventually decided to form a separate association with a different time for its meetings, and thus the Old Trail Drivers' Association sprang into existence, and met with popular favor, so much so that within a year from its organization it had a membership of over five hundred.

The ranks of the old trail drivers are becoming thinner each year, but there still remain many who knew the pleasures and hardships of a six and eight months' trip to market with from fifteen hundred to three thousand head of cattle. They are scattered from Texas to the Canadian border and from California to New York. Many are rated in Dun and Bradstreet's in the seven-figure column, while others are not so well off financially. The stories some of these old fellows could tell would


make your hair stand on end, stories of stampedes and Indian raids, stories with dangers and pleasures intermingled and of fortunes made and lost; they made history which the world does not know a thing about.

To perpetuate the memory of these old trail drivers, who blazed the trail to greater achievement, is the aim of every native-born Texan who knows what has been so unselfishly accomplished. To stimulate it, and keep it alive in the hearts of our Texan youth, will inspire a spirit of reverence and gratitude to their heroic fathers for the liberty which they have given them for the free institutions which are the result of their daring.


The following, taken from the Secretary's record, gives an outline of the first steps that were taken toward organizing the Old Trail Drivers' Association:

"A number of the old time trail men in San Antonio met in the Chamber of Commerce hall on the afternoon of February 15, 1915, for the purpose of organizing an association to include in its membership those surviving who had shared the dangers, vicissitudes and hardships of the trail.

"After a general discussion it was unanimously resolved to perfect the organization and prepare for the enrollment. George W. Saunders outlined the plan of formation, and the following officers were elected : J. R. Blocker, president; George W. Saunders, vice-president; Luther A. Lawhon, secretary, and Colonel R. B. Pumphrey, treasurer."

At that time it was suggested that the "Association affiliate with the Texas Cattle Raisers' Association, and hold joint meetings with that organization. At the Cattle Raisers' convention on March 9th and 10th, 1915, a great


many members were added to the new association, and in March, 1916, the Old Trail Drivers had their first roundup when the Cattle Raisers' convention met in Houston. We give below the complete proceedings of the Old Trail Drivers' meeting, in which is included the report of the Secretary, and a list of the officers and directors of the association:

Minutes of the First Annual Convention of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association Held in the City of Houston, Texas, March 21, 22, 23, 1916

In accordance with the date and place selected by the Texas Cattle Raisers' Association, with which the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association is affiliated, these two organizations convened in the city of Houston on Tuesday, March 21, 1916, in annual convention.

Headquarters for the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association was established in the lobby of the Rice Hotel, with Vice-president and Organizer George W. Saunders, Secretary Luther "A. Lawhon and C. D. Cannon in charge. Badges and buttons, furnished by the association, were distributed to the members, of whom quite a large number were in attendance, and the books of the association were opened for the enrollment of new members.

At 10 o'clock A.M. Tuesday, 21st, the two organizations—the Texas Cattle Raisers' Association and the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, met jointly in the city auditorium for the opening exercises, which were associately conducted, the Hon. Joe Jackson, President of the Texas Cattle Raisers' Association, presiding.

After preliminary prayer and introductory speeches by the Hon. Pat Garrett, the Hon. Ben Campbell, mayor of the city, delivered the address of welcome. This was responded to on behalf of the Texas Cattle Raisers' "Association by the Hon. G. W. "Armstrong, of Fort Worth, and on behalf of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, by Secretary Luther A. Lawhon. The joint


preliminary exercises having been concluded, the Old Time Trail Drivers' "Association recessed until 2:30 P.M.

Afternoon Session

Promptly at 2:30 the members of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association assembled in the ballroom of the Auditorium, which had been kindly placed at the disposal of the Association by the city of Houston. Owing to the absence of President John R. Blocker, who was indisposed, Vice President and Organizer George W. Saunders presided. In calling the "Association to order, Vice President Saunders in a forcible address, reviewed the history of the organization, its aims and its purposes, and dwelt with especial pride upon the cordial and hearty endorsement which had been given the "Association by the "Old Trailers " throughout the country, as evidenced by the many applications for membership which the Secretary had received during the current year.

At the conclusion of Vice President Saunders' address, Secretary Luther A. Lawhon presented the following annual report, which was unanimously adopted :

HON. JOHN R. BLOCKER, President, Old Time Trail Drivers' Association:

SIR —I have the honor to herewith submit to you for the benefit of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association my annual report as Secretary of the Association. I congratulate the membership upon the rapid growth of the Association, and for the deep and fraternal interest which has been unanimously manifested for its maintenance and welfare.

Assembled as we are in our first annual convention, I trust it will not be deemed inappropriate to refer briefly to the origin of our "Association —an organization which has taken such a strong hold upon the hearts of the old-time trail men, and the motives and the influences which called it into being.


As is well known to most of the membership, the name of George W. Saunders, our vice president, is indissolubly linked with that of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association. Mr. Saunders, an old-time cowboy, and one of the first to go up the trail, had urged through the press, as well as orally, the desirability and importance of an organization that would include and perpetuate the names of those survivors who had shared the dangers and the hardships of the trail —a condition and a society long since passed away. The proposition awakened a responsive chord in the hearts of the old-time trail drivers through a call published in the San Antonio Daily Express, a number of prominent cattlemen residing in San Antonio, with others of nearby counties, met in the rooms of the San "Antonio Chamber of Commerce on the afternoon of February 15, 1915, and formally organized the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association with the election of the following officers and board of directors :

John R. Blocker, President.
George W. Saunders, Vice President.
Luther A. Lawhon, Secretary.
R. B. Pumphrey, Treasurer.

J. M. Bennett, Sr., W. J. Moore, George W. West, J. H. Presnall, W. H. Jennings, T. A. Coleman, Ike T. Pryor, J. D. Houston, San Antonio, Texas ; D. H. Snyder, Georgetown, Texas ; John Pumphrey, Taylor, Texas; W. B. Blocker, Austin, Texas ; P. B. Butler, Kenedy, Texas; R. B. Masterson, Amarillo, Texas ; J. B. Irving, Alpine, Texas; John Holland, "Alpine, Texas J. H. Paramore, Abilene, Texas; Clabe Merchant, Abilene, Texas ; T. D. Wood, Victoria, Texas; George W. Littlefield, Austin, Texas ; M. A. Withers, Lockhart, Texas ; Charles Schreiner, Kerrville, Texas ; Jim Scott, Alice, Texas.

By resolution all those are eligible for membership who went up the trail with cattle or horses during the


years from 1865 to 1896. A membership fee of One Dollar was authorized to be assessed.

The Cattle Raisers' Association of Texas, at its annual convention held in San Antonio, March 9th, 10th, 11th, 1915, generously extended its fraternal recognition of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, by passing a resolution inviting the latter to meet with the former in its annual convention. In this connection I desire to return thanks to the editor, A. C. Williams of The Cattleman, the official organ of the Cattle Raisers' "Association of Texas, and Assistant Secretary of that organization for the courteous consideration which he persistently extended to the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association.

In May, 1915, your secretary addressed to each member of the Association a letter signed by Vice President George W. Saunders, asking that the parties addressed would write their reminiscences, incidents and adventures of the Trail for the benefit of the Association. In response to these letters the Secretary has received a number of communications, which are not only highly interesting, but are valuable contributions to the frontier history of Texas. It is expected that at this convention the "Association will take such steps as it may deem proper to have these chronicles edited and properly arranged for the press, that they may be ultimately published in book form for sale to the general public, and for the benefit of the Association.

On February 5th, 1916, at a meeting of the Executive Committee composed of the officers and Board .of Directors, held in San "Antonio, a resolution was passed making the sons of the old time trail drivers eligible for membership. This was done at the urgent solicitation of many of the younger cattlemen of Texas, whose fathers had been trail men, and who felt an interest in, and a desire to become identified with the organization.

In addition to appreciating the interest shown by the


sons of the old-time trail men, the Executive Committee recognized that in a few years at best, the old-time trail men will have passed away, and the incorporation of the young cattlemen would be the means of perpetuating our organization. We now have a membership of 375, scattered through the states of Missouri, Oklahoma, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.

The Executive Committee, also at this meeting, decided to have a button manufactured for the members to wear permanently in the buttonhole of the lapel of their coats. Vice President Saunders was authorized to select the design and arrange for the manufacture. In obedience to this, Mr. Saunders designed and has had manufactured a button which is artistic, appropriate and worthy to be worn by the membership of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association. He also had badges printed for distribution to the members attending this convention.

I regret to have to report that since our last meeting death has taken from our midst the following members :

J. H. Winn, Pleasanton, Texas; William Choate, Beeville, Texas; S. R. Guthrie, "Alpine, Texas; 0. C. Hildebrand, Brownsville, Texas ; T. D. Woods, Victoria, Texas. In the death of these members, our Association has suffered a severe loss, and I submit that this convention pass appropriate resolutions to their memories.

In conclusion I desire to return my sincere thanks to the officers and members of the Association for their cordial cooperation in behalf of the Association, and for the uniform courtesy and consideration which they have extended to me. For the past twelve months I have, as Secretary, served the Association to the best of my ability, and I trust that the interest of our honored Association will continue to advance for the future as it has in the past.


The Secretary's report having been adopted, the Association went into discussion of the origin, start, route and terminus of the "Old Chisholm Trail." There was found to be a considerable difference of opinion as to details pertaining to this famous historic highway, and it was finally decided to leave the subject for further discussion at the 1917 convention, the Secretary, in the meantime being instructed to correspond with as many of the original trail men as possible, that the origin and route of this famous trail might be definitely established at the succeeding annual convention. To this end, the Secretary was especially instructed to write to the following "Old Trail" men for such data and information as they might be able to furnish : Bud Daggett, Fort Worth, Texas ; John Coffee, Knoxville, Texas; Eli Baggett, San Angelo, Texas.

Acting President Saunders appointed a committee to draft appropriate resolutions on death of deceased members. The committee in due time reported, and the resolutions were unanimously adopted. On motion of Acting President Saunders, the Association unanimously voted a monthly salary of Thirty Dollars to Secretary Luther A. Lawhon for the succeeding year, or for such time as he should continue to act as Secretary for the Association.

After disposing of further routine matters as claimed the immediate attention of the convention, there was a general interchange of old-time reminiscences, incidents and experiences. A number of ladies were in attendance on the convention, who were interested listeners, and who evinced a deep and patriotic interest in the proceedings of the Association. Having disposed of all business to be transacted, the convention adjourned sine die.
LUTHER A. LAWHON, Secretary.

The second annual reunion of the Old Trail Drivers' Association was held in San Antonio, Texas, July 2 and


3, 1917. It was estimated that fully two hundred and fifty of the old trail men were in attendance. The meeting place was in the ballroom of the Gunter Hotel. Addresses of welcome were delivered by Hon. Dave Woodward as representative of Mayor Sam C. Bell, by Hon. J. H. Kirkpatrick, representing the Chamber of Commerce ; Col. Ike T. Pryor, President of the American Live Stock Association, and Vice President George W. Saunders of the Old Trail Drivers' Association, who responded on behalf of the Association. Following is Secretary Lawhon's report as adopted at this meeting :

HON. JOHN R. BLOCKER, President, Old Time Trail Drivers' Association.

SIR —I have the honor to herewith submit to you, and through you to the members of this Association, my annual report as Secretary for the years 1916-17.

Assembled as we are in our second annual reunion, I am proud to be able to congratulate the Association upon its continued growth in membership, and upon the loyalty and zealous interest which has been manifested by the membership at large. This is an incentive and an encouragement to further effort on our part, individually and collectively. Therefore, judging the future by the past, I believe I am not indulging in an unwarranted assumption when I say the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association is destined to take its place as one of the permanent and popular associations of our country.

Within a few days after adjournment of our reunion at Houston last year, your Secretary addressed a letter to each of those members who were not in attendance on the Houston reunion, and enclosed a badge and the Association button with concise mention of the meeting. With this effort I am persuaded that the members at large have received their badges and buttons to be worn in the lapels of their coats. There are, however, some exceptions to this assertion. A few of the letters so


addressed were returned to your Secretary "unclaimed." I assume that the members in question had changed their residence after enrollment at San Antonio in 1915, and had neglected to acquaint me with the change.

While our Association is not yet two years old, we have in the neighborhood of five hundred members' names upon the Association's books, or, to be exact, 488 members are now actively identified with the "Association. Eight of these are sons of the old-time trail drivers. This list is being rapidly augmented by new accessions, and our membership as it stands today shows the names of members resident in Missouri, Oklahoma, Kansas, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas and other states.

During the past twelve months, so far as your Secretary has been able to ascertain, the hand of Providence has lain lightly upon the membership of our "Association. Since our last meeting, death has claimed but two of our members, Jesse Presnall and M. Standifer, both of San Antonio. The former was well and favorably known throughout the state as one of the old-time cowmen, while the latter, though not actively engaged in the livestock industry, was one of the "old trailers," and took a deep interest in the organization. In the death of these two members our "Association has suffered a grievous loss.

After the reading of the Secretary's report a general discussion of the origin and terminus of the Old Chisholm Trail was indulged in. A letter on this subject, written by W. P. Anderson, was read in which the writer gave many facts concerning the origin and route of this famous highway, stating that this trail was named for a half-breed, John Chisholm, who ranched in the Indian Territory, and who in the early sixties had driven a herd of cattle through the Indian Territory to the government forts on the Arkansas River, and that subsequently when the great drives from Texas commenced these herds would intersect and follow for a considerable distance


this Chisholm Trail in the Indian Territory, and for this reason became familiarly known as "The Chisholm Trail." This version of Mr. Anderson's was unanimously adopted by the Association as being authoritative and authentic:

Origin of the Old Chisholm Trail

MR. LUTHER A. LAWHON, Secretary, Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, San Antonio, Texas.


Your letter of April 13th came to hand after following me through the Cattle Convention to the Northwest and was finally received at El Paso, Texas, last week on my way here from San Antonio.

In reference to the Old Chisholm Trail I notice that you spell the name " Chism. " Another version is " Chissum," but probably the correct one is "Chisholm." As I understand the history of these trails, the original Chisholm Trail was named after John Chisholm, who was a Cherokee cattle trader, who supplied the government frontier posts with their cattle supply in the early part of the occupation of frontier posts and during the Civil War.

Among the first herds that started north from Texas was that of Smith and Elliot, and their guide was a gentleman who was formerly a soldier with Robert E. Lee, who had to do with the civilized tribes of the Indian Territory and used the old military trails, which were supposed to run from Texas to Sedalia, Mo., and crossed the Red River at Colbert's Ferry, and who afterwards was a citizen of San Antonio and whose children reside here now. The name I do not recall at present.

The first diversion from this trail was where the trail left the Sedalia trail for Baxter Springs. It was originally used by this same John Chisholm, the Cherokee Indian cattle trader, to supply Fort Scott, Kan. The basic ground for the commencement of this trail was


probably about the mouth of the Grand River where it emptied into the Arkansas. The most prominent branch of this trail runs directly up the Arkansas River as far as Fort Zarah, which was about a mile east of where Great Bend, Kan., now stands. From along this trail there were diversions made by these cattle that went into the army supply at Fort Riley, Fort Harker, near Ellsworth; Fort Hays, near Hays City ; Fort Wallace, now Wallace, Kan., the main base being in the Arkansas bottom on what is now called Chisholm Creek near the present city of Wichita, the trail continuing on west as far as Fort Bend and Fort Lyon in Colorado, for the delivery of these cattle, hence all cattle trailed from Texas across the Arkansas River would, perforce, strike at some point the old Chisholm Trail, and hence practically all cattle, whether by Colbert's Ferry, Red River Crossing or Doan's Store or elsewhere intermediate, would naturally use some part of the original Cherokee Indian Chisholm Trail on some part of its journey to Western Kansas.

In about the late 60's or early 70's, Mr. Charles Goodnight went the western route up the Pecos into the Colorado country, establishing what was known as the Goodnight or the Goodnight & Loving Trail, afterwards trailing the "Jingle Bobs" or the John Chissum cattle north, laying the old Tascosa route out to. Dodge City, Kan., which became famous as the Chissum Trail and naturally produced the confusion as to the identity of the original Chisholm cattle trail. Nominally every man that came up the trail felt as though he had traversed the old Chisholm Trail. The facts hardly establish the original of either the New Mexican John Chissum Trail or the John Chisholm Cherokee Trail leading to western frontier army posts as originating in Texas.

In reference to Mr. Goodnight's allusion to my "blazing" the trail for the Joe McCoy herd, my recollection of the first herd that came to "Abilene, Kan., was that


of J. J. Meyers, one of the trail drivers of that herd now living at Panhandle, Texas. A Mr. Gibbs, I think, will ascertain further on the subject. The first cattle shipped out of Abilene, that I recollect, was by C. C. Slaughter of Dallas, and while loaded at Abilene, Kan., the billing was made from memorandum slips at Junction City, Kan.

The original chapters of Joe McCoy's book were published in a paper called The Cattle Trail, edited by H. M. Dixon, whose address is now the Auditorium building, Chicago. It was my connection with this publication that has probably led Mr. Goodnight into the belief that I helped blaze the trail with McCoy's cattle herd. This was the first paper I know of that published maps of the trails from different cattle-shipping points in Kansas to the intersection of the original Chisholm Trail, one from Coffeyville, Kan., the first, however, from Baxter Springs, then from Abilene, Newton, then Wichita and Great Bend, Dodge City becoming so famous obviated the necessity for further attention in this direction.

There are many interesting incidents that could still be made a matter of record connected with the old cattle trails that I could enumerate, but I will reserve them for another time.

Yours truly,

Election of Officers

Then followed the election of officers for the ensuing year. George W. Saunders was elected president ; J. B. Murrah, vice president ; Luther A. Lawhon, secretary, and R. B. Pumphrey, treasurer. On motion of MT. Murrah the following resolution was unanimously adopted:

"Resolved, That in his voluntary retirement from the presidency of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, we extend to Hon. John R. Blocker our sincere appreciation of the able and patriotic manner in which he has


presided over the destinies of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, and we extend to him our sincere wishes for his future health and happiness."

Vacancies in the Board of Directors occasioned by death were filled by the election of John Doak of Del Rio, J. M. Dobie of Cotulla, Texas, and W. S. Hall of Comfort, Texas.

The wives and daughters of members of the Association were made eligible for membership.

It was resolved that all communications intended for the proposed book of trail and frontier reminiscences must be received by the Secretary of the Association on or before January, 1918.

San Antonio was selected as the place for the next reunion. The convention adjourned, after passing a number of resolutions which are of but little concern to the readers of this book.

During this convention the members of the Association, with their wives, daughters and friends, were given an automobile ride through the city and out to the Saunders ranch on the Medina River, where an old-fashioned barbecue which had been prepared by George W. Saunders and T. "A. Coleman was tendered the visitors.

Owing to the World War, which was in progress at the time scheduled for the meeting in 1918, no reunion was held that year, and the funds which had been appropriated for the reunion were used in the purchase of $500 worth of Liberty Bonds. But on September 10th and 11th, 1919, the Association again met in San "Antonio, and following is the report of the proceedings of that meeting, as furnished by the Secretary:


Minutes of the Annual Reunion of the Old Time Trail Drivers'
Association, Held in San Antonio, Texas,
September 10th and 11th, 1919

After a recess of two years on account of the World War, the members of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association met in annual reunion September 10th, 1919, in the ballroom of the Gunter Hotel, in the city of San Antonio. The meeting had previously been called by the Board of Directors for September 10th and 11th. Promptly at 10 o'clock A.M., President George W. Saunders rapped for order, and declared the annual reunion of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association to be in session. Chaplain J. Stewart Pierce, who was elected chaplain of the Association at a former reunion, and who is also chaplain of the 15th Field Artillery, U. S. A., delivered an impressive invocation, after which Luther A. Lawhon, secretary of the Association, as the representative of Mayor Bell, delivered the address of welcome. Secretary Lawhon was followed by Judge S. H. Wood of Alice, Texas, who in an eloquent address, which was frequently applauded, responded in behalf of the membership of the Association. Addresses were also made by J. D. Jackson of Alpine, Texas, ex-President of the Texas Cattle Raisers' Association, and by Nat M. Washer, prominent merchant and citizen of San Antonio. Mr. Washer's eloquent and patriotic sentiments were frequently loudly cheered. In the interval between the addresses the orchestra played popular and patriotic songs. After the morning's program had been concluded, the reunion took a recess until two o'clock P.M.

On reassembling, the afternoon's session was devoted to a general discussion of business matters affecting the interests of the Association, and the passage of resolutions. President Saunders appointed J. D. Jackson, J. B. Murrah and Luther A. Lawhon a committee to draft suit- able resolutions on the death of deceased members. The committee reported as follows :

"Whereas, It has pleased Divine Providence to remove by death from our midst the following members of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association : E. E. Rutledge, John Hoffman, Maxey Burris, John H. Meads, W. J. Moore, Joe Farris, Walter J. Dunkin, B. M. Hall and E. R. Jensen, all of San Antonio ; W. B. Houston of Gonzales, J. A. Martin of Kenedy, John B. Pumphrey of Taylor, Tom Perry of Bracketville, J. H. Jaroman of "Abilene, S. R. Guthrie of Alpine, W. M. Choate of Beeville, J. H. Winn of Pleasanton, T. D. Wood of Victoria, J. A. Kercheville of Devine, Henry Rothe of Hondo, W. T. Mulholland of Jourdanton, C. C. Hildebrand of Brownsville, W. D. Crawford of Dilley, R. D. Peril of Jewett, Hart Mussey of Alice, "A. H. "Allen of Eagle Pass and Ed Dewees, Wilson County; therefore be it
"Resolved, That we deplore the loss of these old pioneers. We feel that their families have suffered an irreparable loss and we extend to them our heartfelt sympathies ; and we further recognize that in the death of these members the state has lost some of its worthy citizens and this Association some of its most active, zealous and worthy members."

At the close of the afternoon session of the first day's meeting it was announced that there was free admission for every member of the Association for the evening performance at the Princess Theater. On motion of President Saunders the members of the Albert Sidney Johnston Camp of Confederate Veterans, were made honorary members of the Association.

The morning session of the second day of the reunion (September 11th) was devoted to a general discussion or old-time "pow-wow," as some of the boys termed it. These interesting proceedings continued until eleven o'clock, when the members entered automobiles and were driven to the Saunders ranch, some twelve miles from


the city, where, upon the banks of the beautiful Medina River, an old-time barbecue had been prepared for the "Old Trailers" and their friends. After partaking of the bountiful repast, speech-making was indulged in and old-time reminiscences were recounted, after which the members and friends returned to the city for the closing session of the reunion.

On reassembling in the ballroom of the Gunter Hotel, the election of officers was the first to be considered. This resulted in the re-election of the following officers : George W. Saunders, president; J. B. Murrah, vice president ; R. F. Jennings, secretary, and R. B. Pumphrey, treasurer. Rev. J. Stewart Pierce was unanimously reelected chaplain. On motion of J. D. Jackson the annual dues, which had been put at one dollar, were raised to two dollars, in accordance with the expressed wish of the Association that the Secretary should be paid a salary of thirty dollars per month —a part of which sum was to be expended by the Secretary for postage, stationery, etc. The following resolutions were unanimously adopted before final adjournment :

"Resolved, By the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, that we, each and every one, appreciate the warm hospitality which has been accorded by the city of San Antonio, and we look forward with pleasure to our visit here next year.

"Resolved, That the thanks of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association are hereby extended to Percy Tyrell, manager of the Gunter Hotel, for the many courtesies which he has extended to this Association during this reunion.

"M. W. S. Parker, J. D. Jackson, J. B. Murrah, M. A. Withers, committee."

At the close of the afternoon session of the second day (September 11th) the annual reunion of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, was declared at an end. This concluded two days of solid enjoyment, in which


some three hundred "Old Trailers," many of them with their wives and daughters, took part. These old pioneers had gathered from all sections of Texas and neighboring states to renew old friendships and recount the incidents of frontier life and dwell once more upon the hardships and adventures of the old trail days.


(Compiled by George W. Saunders and Read at the Reunion of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association)

The following, prepared by President George W. Saunders, was read at the 1917 reunion of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association. Embodied in the article are statistics regarding cattle movements in early days, which are graphically portrayed by Mr. Saunders, and worthy of preservation :

Very few people realize at this late date the important part played by the old-time trail drivers towards civilization and development of the great State of Texas. At the close of the Civil War the soldiers came home broke and our state was in a deplorable condition. The old men, small boys and negroes had taken care of the stock on the ranges and the state was overstocked, but there was no market for their stock. In 1867 and 1868 some of our most venturesome stockmen took a few small herds of cattle to New Orleans, Baxter Springs, Abilene, Kansas, and other markets. The Northern drives proved fairly successful, though they experienced many hardships and dangers going through an uncivilized and partly unexplored country. The news of their success spread like wildfire, and the same men and others tackled the trail in 1869. At that time it was not a question of making money; it was a question of finding a market for


their surplus stock at any price. There was very little money in the country, and no banks or trust companies to finance the drives. In this great undertaking some of them drove their own stock and others buying on credit to pay on their return, giving no other security than a list of brands and amounts due. The 1869 drives proved successful, which caused many other stockmen to join the trail drivers in 1870. By this time going up the trail was all a rage ; 1870 was a banner year at all the markets. The drivers came home and began preparing for the 1871 drives. Excitement ran high ; there was never such activity in the stock business before in Texas. Drivers were scouring the country, contracting for cattle for the next spring delivery, buying horses and employing cowboys and foremen. Many large companies were formed to facilitate the handling of the fast growing business. Capital had been attracted from the money centers and financial arrangements to pay for the stock as received in the spring were made. Thus opened the spring of 1871, also all the drivers increasing the number of herds previously driven and many companies and individuals driving ten to fifteen herds each. Imagine all the ranchmen in South, East and Middle Texas at work at the first sign of spring, gathering and delivering trail herds.

This work generally lasted from "April 1st to May 15th. The drivers would receive, road-brand and deliver a herd to their foremen, supply them with cash or letters of credit, give the foremen and hands instructions and say ""Adios, boys, I will see you in "Abilene, Dodge, Ellsworth, Ogallala, Cheyenne," or whatever point was the destination of the herd. Then riding day and night to the next receiving point, going through the same performance, then on to the next until all herds were started up the trail. Some of the drivers would go on the trail, others would go by rail or boat to the markets, lobby around waiting for their herds, sometimes going down the trail several hundred miles to meet their herds, often


bringing buyers with them. I made my first trip up the trail in 1871 for Choate & Bennett. John Bennett, Sr., was a member of the firm. They sent fourteen herds up the trail that year. Dunk Choate, now deceased, counted and delivered this herd to Jim Byler, our boss, on the Cibolo near Stockdale, Wilson County, pointed our herd north and left, saying, "You boys know the rest, I must leave you and receive other herds."

The first few years there was no market for cow ponies at the cattle, markets. In 1871 we brought back over the trail 150 cow ponies and several chuck wagons from Abilene, Kan., belonging to Choate & Bennett and W. C. Butler ; but later, after ranches were established throughout the Northwest those ranchmen learned that our Spanish ponies were better for the range work than their native horses, and after that cow ponies were ready sale and the cowboys came home by rail or boat. Later there was a demand for Texas brood mares. This proved a bonanza for Texas ranchmen, as our ranges were overstocked with them and they were almost worthless. I drove 1,000 in two herds to Dodge City in 1884. It was claimed that 100,000 went up the trail that year and more than 1,000,000 went up the trail from the time the horse market opened until the trail closed.

1871 was not a successful year, but it did not prevent a grand rush for the 1872 drive. Some of the drivers had made government contracts to supply Indian agencies, some had contracts with Western ranchmen for stock cattle and young steers; others driving on the open market. 1872 proved a successful year which caused a great rush for the 1873 drive. Those that sold early, had contracts or got tips from the money centers, did fairly well, but a panic clogged the wheels of commerce. Some sold at heavy losses, some wintered herds, "thinking a steer in good condition could live where a buffalo could;


a cold winter and a sleet-covered range caused many losses. The 1874 drive was lighter and profitable, which caused a larger drive in 1875. Those losers in 1873 patched up weak places and were on the trail again ; such men would not stay broke. By this time the drivers had become acquainted with the Western ranchmen. Large companies were formed and many large ranches were established in the Indian Territory and the Northwestern ranges. The drives continued, but they did not always have smooth sailing. The market fluctuated, some had heavy losses from losing stock on the trail on account of drouths, late spring, cold weather and many other causes. During all these years the Texas ranchmen were not idle. With the proceeds of cattle sold to trail men they were able to improve their stock, establish new ranches, all the time pushing west and forcing the savages before them. At the close of the war all the country west of an air line from Eagle Pass to Gainesville was uncivilized and sparsely settled. Every ranch or village above this line was subject to an Indian raid every moon. The government had a string of posts across the state above this line, but the Indians made many raids between these posts, murdered men, women and children, stole stock and made their escape without seeing a soldier. The soldiers did their best, but the cunning savages generally outwitted them. The trailers and ranchmen were the most dreaded enemies of the Indians and Texas Rangers next, most of them being cowboys. The savages were forced back slowly but surely by the trailer and ranchmen and were finally forced into the mountains of New Mexico, Old Mexico and Arizona, their number being reduced to a small band led by the notorious Geronimo, chief of the Apaches, which was captured by the government troops in 1885. This ended Indian depredations in Texas. The co-operation of the trailers, ranchmen and rangers with the government troops accomplished this great feat, but the most credit belongs to the old-time


trail driver, the starter and finisher of the destiny of this great state, and the men that blazed the way that led to many great commercial enterprises, besides stocking and causing to be stocked the ranges from the Rio Grande to British possessions that before that time were a desert (not bringing a cent of revenue to the state's treasury) inhabited by wild animals and savages. From 1885 the drives were lighter up to 1895, when the trail which had been used twenty-seven years was closed. Nothing like it and its far-reaching accomplishment ever happened before and will never happen again. It is estimated by the most conservative old-time trail drivers that an average of 350,000 cattle were driven up the trails from Texas each year for 28 years, making 9,800,000 cattle at $10 a head received by the ranchmen at home making $98,000,000; 1,000,000 horse stock at $10 per head received by the ranchmen at home, making $10,000,000, or a total of $108,000,000. This vast amount sounds like a European war loan, but it was not. It was all caused by a few fearless men making the start in 1867 or 1868. No one had any idea that the cattle, the staple product, would blossom out thus and bring such prosperity to our state and heap so much glory on the heads of the oldtime trail men. The circulation of the billions of dollars produced by the industry, passing as it did, directly into channels that were opened to receive it, produced the prosperity that has been in evidence in Texas for so many years, the cowman, the merchant, the farmer, the day laborer, profited thereby, and the vast volume of gold that flowed through these channels is absolutely incomprehensible.

Had these old-time trail drivers not looked for and found this market our vast herds would have died on the ranges and the vast unstocked ranges would have lain dormant and unproductive. Our ranchmen would have left Texas disgusted and broke, and it would have been


a difficult matter to re-inhabit our state ; therefore development would have been checked for many years ; possibly no iron horse would have reached the Rio Grande up to this time as the inducement would not have been attractive. No one knows what would have happened had the Northern trail never existed, but it is plain that all commercial achievements, civilization, good government, Christianity, morality, our school system, the use of all school and state lands making them revenue-bearers, the expansion of the stock business from the Rio Grande to the British possessions, which is producing millions of dollars ; the building of railroads, factories, seaports, agricultural advancement and everything else pertaining to prosperity can be traced directly to the achievements of the old-time trail drivers. The many good things accomplished by the untiring efforts of these old heroes can never be realized or told just as they were enacted, and it would be the father of all mistakes to let their daring and valuable efforts be forgotten and pass to unwritten history. Our Association now has 500 members and by resolution we made the sons of the old-time trail drivers eligible to membership. There are many old-timers that have not joined, but I believe every one will when the importance of perpetuating the memory of the old-timers is fully understood by them. It is our purpose to write a history dealing strictly with trail and ranch life and the early cattle industry. This book will consist of letters written by trail drivers only, giving the minutest details of their experiences of bygone days at home and on the trail, and will contain facts and be full of thrills. Such a book has never been written ; all the books published on this subject have been by some author who spent a few months on some ranch, then attempted to write a book, understanding very little about stock or the stock business, and consequently having them pulling off stunts that have never been pulled off anywhere else but in the fertile imagination of some fiction writer. We


are now assessing the old members $5.00 each and are charging $5.00 each for the enrollment of new members. This fund will be used for compiling and printing our history and paying the necessary expenses of the Association. Each member will get a book free. If there is any more left it will stay in the treasury to be used with the proceeds of the sale of our history as directed by the directors or by the Association as a whole. I am in favor of building a monument somewhere on the old trail, between San Antonio and Fort Worth, to the Old Time Trail Drivers.


By J. B. Pumphrey of Taylor, Texas

I am glad that the Old Trail Drivers' Association is making up a collection of letters and stories of the "Boys Who Rode the Trail," and it will be fine to read them and recall the old days. I am pleased to hand you a brief sketch of myself and some of my experiences.

My mother was a Boyce, one of the old pioneer families of Texas, and my father came from Ohio as a surgeon with General Taylor during the war between the United States and Mexico, and afterwards settled in Texas. My oldest uncle, Jim Boyce, was killed and scalped by Indians on the bank of Gilleland's Creek, near Austin.

I was born at old Round Rock on the 10th of November, 1852, and had the usual schooling of that time, when the "Blue Back Speller" and "Dog-wood Switch" were considered the principal necessities for the boy's education.

All of my life I have been engaged in the cow business, taking my first job in 1869 at $15.00 a month, for


eighteen (18) hours a day if necessary, with horses furnished.

In February, 1872, I made my first trip on the long trail helping to gather a herd at the old Morrow Ranch, about two miles from Taylor, and from there we went through to Kansas, and then rode back, making about a four months' trip in all, and then I felt like I was a real graduated cowboy. I would like to see this ride in '72 compared with the longest ride that was ever made. My wages on the trail were $60.00 per month, I furnishing six head of cow ponies. This trip was made while working for Cul Juvanel, who was from Indiana and had a lot of Indiana boys with him, whom we called "Short Horns." Myself and two others, Beal Pumphrey, my brother, and Taylor Penick, were the only Texans in the bunch. When we reached the South Fork of the Arkansas River it was night, and about five o'clock in the morning, after waking the cook, I was on my way back to the herd when I saw our horses were being hustled, and was afraid they would stampede the herd, when just then the cook yelled "Indians," and sure enough they had rounded up our horses and were going away with them. A heavy rain was falling and the boss said, "You Texas boys follow the Indians and get those horses." The two others and myself rode one day and night, having to swim rivers and creeks with our clothing fastened on our shoulders to keep them dry, making the hardest ride of my life, but we did not overtake the Indians ; and I am now glad that we did not. We were left with but one horse each, with this herd, but had another herd near by and, throwing the' two together, making about six thousand head, we took them through to Kansas.

I remember one trip later in the year with Dave Pryor and Ike Pryor, when we were working for Bill Arnold of Llano County. We got back home on the night of December 24th, and rolling up in our blankets, slept in the yard, where the folks found us in the morning.


In 1873 I made another trip to Kansas with Bill Murchison of Llano County, and in later years took two other herds through to Kansas.

I have handled cattle in Mexico, South and Central Texas, Oklahoma, and once had a herd in Wyoming. I was director and vice president of the Taylor National Bank for twenty-four years, president of the McCulloch County Land & Cattle Company about twenty-five years, and now have ranches in McCulloch and Stonewall Counties.

I have never forgotten the feel of the saddle after a long day, the weight and pull of the old six-shooter, and what a blessing to cowmen was the old yellow slicker. Those were the days when men depended upon themselves first, but could rely on their friends to help, if necessary. Days of hard work but good health ; plain fare but strong appetites, when people expected to work for their living and short hours and big pay was unknown.

In conclusion, I wish to say any movement that will preserve the memories of the old trail days is valuable, for in a few years most of those who "Rode the Trail" will have crossed the great divide. All honor to the Old Timers who have gone before, and good luck to all of you who are left.

By R. B. Pumphrey of San Antonio

In offering this, a small sketch of my life, to be published in the book that is to be published by the Old Trail Drivers' Association, I find it will be necessary for me to quote the same things that are written by my brother, J. B. Pumphrey.

"My mother was a Boyce, one of the old pioneer families of Texas, and my father came from Ohio as a surgeon with General Taylor, during the war between


the United States and Mexico, and afterwards settled in Texas. My oldest uncle, Jim Boyce, was killed and scalped by Indians on the bank of Gilleland's Creek near Austin."

Like my brother, I, too, was born at Old Round Rock, on April 3rd, 1854. Our education was very much alike, the principal studies being "Blue Back Speller" and the "Dog-wood Switch."


I have been in the cattle business practically all of my life, beginning when I was sixteen or seventeen years old, and finally in February, 1872, my brother and I assisted in making up a herd for the Trail. This herd was sold to a man by the name of Cul Juvanel and our experiences on this trip were practically the same. We went through to Kansas, riding back, making about a four months' trip in all. My wages on the trail were $60.00 per month. This trip was made while working for Cul Juvanel, who was from Indiana and had a lot of Indiana boys with him, whom we called "Short Horns." Myself and two others, John Pumphrey, my brother, and Taylor Penick, were the only Texans in the bunch. When we reached the South Fork of the Arkansas River it was night, and about 5 o'clock in the morning, after waking the cook, was on my way back to the herd when I saw our horses were being hustled, and was afraid they would stampede the herd, and just then the cook yelled "Indians," and sure enough they had rounded up our horses and gone away with them. A heavy rain was falling and the boss said, "You Texas boys follow the Indians and get those horses." The two others and


myself rode one day and night, having to swim the rivers with our clothing fastened on our shoulders to keep them dry, making the hardest ride of my life, but we did not overtake the Indians ; and I am now glad that we did not. We were left with but one horse each, with this herd, but had another herd near by and, throwing the two together, making about 6,000 head, we took them through to Kansas.

In 1873 I made another trip to Kansas with W. T. "Avery. On this trip, just north of the "Arkansas River, we had another experience that I think is worth relating. There were about four or five big herds camped near together and we had a very .severe storm, consequently our herds were badly mixed and it took us all the following day to separate them, each fellow getting his own cattle. After we had separated the cattle we counted ours and found that we were about fifteen head of cattle short. So Mr. Avery and myself and one other man that we could rely on made a circle around where the cattle were lost to see if we could find the trail where they had gone off. We finally found the trail and followed it for ten or fifteen miles, when my horse was bitten by a rattlesnake and, of course, we knew it would not do to attempt to go further on a snake-bitten horse, so we retraced our steps to the camp, finally getting this snake-bitten horse into the camp about 12 o'clock at night. During the absence some of the neighbors told the bosses that we had been killed by the Osage Indians and our men, of course, all thought we had been killed until we arrived at camp, or else we would not have stayed out so late. Early the next morning we reported to our foreman, telling him that we had found the trail and that they were being driven off by the Indians— so he reinforced our party by one man and sent us off again to see if we could get the cattle. We did not lose much time in following the cattle, but as they had two days the start of us, we were never able to overtake them, which perhaps was a


good thing, as we were poorly armed and perhaps would have been three men against ten or fifteen Indians. We rode our horses so hard the first day that we were unable to get back for two days and we and our horses were worn out and almost starved when we reached our camp. It was not thought advisable to trail the cattle any further.

After this second year's experience on the trail I, with my two brothers, went to Llano County, where we associated ourselves with the Moss boys, who were our first cousins, and for ten years I ranched in Llano County. In '84 my brother, Mr. Kuykendall and myself moved about 12,000 cattle to Wyoming Territory, where I spent two years on the range. This proved not to be a very successful move for me, as we lost practically everything we put in that country. After that I did not attempt any trail driving until '84 and '85. My brother, Kuykendall and myself had established a ranch in Greer County and drove several herds from Central Texas to Greer County to stock this ranch with.

While those were hard old times, I never have regretted for a minute that I underwent the hardships, as it was the kind of a life that I loved at that time and I only wish that I was young enough to engage in the same life again. Many of the old boys who were on the trail have passed away, but I want to wish for the few that are left that they will always "graze with the lead cattle."

(EDITOR'S NOTE.-J. B. Pumphrey died at Taylor, Texas, July 21, 1917. R. B. Pumphrey died at Austin, May 4, 1920.)



By E. A. (Berry) Robuck, Lockhart, Texas

I was born in Caldwell County, Texas, September 3, 1857, and was in my sixteenth year when I entered the trail life. My father came to this state from Mississippi in 1854, when he was sixteen years old. He enlisted in the Confederate Army and died in 1863 of pneumonia while in the service. I was the oldest of three brothers, one of them being Terrell (Tully) Robuck, who went to North Dakota with Colonel Jim Ellison's outfit in 1876. He was then sixteen years old. Emmet Robuck, who was assassinated at Brownsville in 1902 while serving as a state ranger, was my son.

I made my first trip up the trail to Utah Territory with old man Coleman Jones, who was boss for a herd belonging to Colonel Jack Meyers. This herd was put up at the Smith & Wimberly ranch in Gillespie County. I gained wonderful experience on this trip in the stampede, high water, hailstorms, thunder and lightning which played on the horns of the cattle and on my horse's ears. We suffered from cold and hunger and often slept on wet blankets and wore wet clothing for several days and nights at a time, but it was all in the game, and we were compensated for the unpleasant things by the sport of roping buffalo and seeing sights we had never seen before.

On one occasion my boss sent me from the Wimberly ranch to another ranch twenty miles away to get some bacon. At the foot of Packsaddle Mountain, in Llano County, I passed about fifty Indians who had killed a beef and were eating their breakfast, but I failed to see them as I passed. When I reached my destination a man came and reported the presence of the Indians. I had to return over the same route I had come, so I took the best horse I had for my saddle horse and put the


packsaddle and bacon on another horse, for I was determined to go back without being handicapped by that bacon. I dodged the Indians and got back to the Wimberly ranch in safety.

On one of my trail trips we had a trying experience between Red River and the Great Bend of the Arkansas River on the Western trail, when we had to go without water for twenty-four hours. When we finally reached water about 600 head of the cattle bogged in the mud and we worked all night pulling them out.

At another time I was on the Smoky River in Kansas when 2,800 beeves stampeded. I found myself in the middle of the herd, while a cyclone and hailstorm made the frightened brutes run pell-mell. The lightning played all over the horns of the cattle and the ears of my horse, and the hail almost pounded the brim of my hat off. I stuck to the cattle all night all alone, and was out only one hundred head the next morning. Another time I ran all night, lost my hat in the stampede, and went through the rain bareheaded.

On one trip myself and a negro, Emanuel Jones, ran into a herd of buffalo in the Indian Territory, and roped two of them. The one I lassoed got me down and trampled my shirt off, but I tied him down with a hobble I had around my waist. One day my boss told me we were going to make a buffalo run, and asked me to ride my best horse. The horse I rode was a red roan belonging to George Hill, who was afterward assassinated at Cotulla, Texas. Myself and Wash Murray rode together, and when we got into the chase I caught a five-year-old cow. My horse was "Katy on the spot" in a case of that kind, and helped me to win the championship on that occasion. I was the only man in the party that succeeded in roping a buffalo.

I met Mac Stewart, Noah Ellis, Bill Campbell and several other old Caldwell County boys in Ellsworth, Kan., on one of my trips. Stewart served three years in


F.A. (Perry) ROBUCK


the Confederate Army, after which he took to trail life and followed that for several years, then going to Mexico, where he became involved in a difficulty with an officer and killed him. He was in prison for over ten years with the death sentence hanging over him, but through the influence of friends in this country, he was finally released and returned to Texas, dying shortly afterward.

"After meeting this bunch in Ellsworth, a number of us returned home together with the saddle horses. We came back the old Chisholm Trail. While returning through the Indian Territory we were caught in a cyclone and hailstorm one night while I was on guard. The wind was so strong at times it nearly blew me out of the saddle, and the hail pelted me so hard great knots were raised on my head. Next morning I found myself alone in a strange land with the horses, for I had drifted with the storm. Picking up the back trail, I started for camp, and before long in the distance I saw some people coming towards me. I thought they might be Indians, but it turned out to be Mac Stewart and others who had started out to search for me. The horse I was riding that night was raised by Black Bill Montgomery, and had been taken up the trail that year by Mark Withers. Three days later we reached Red River, which was on a big rise. We were out of grub, but had to remain there for three days waiting for the river to run down, but it kept getting higher, so we decided to attempt the crossing. We put into the stream, and with great difficulty got the horses across. Mac Stewart's horse refused to swim, and as Mac could not swim, I went to his rescue. The horse floated down the river, and Mac told me he had $300 in money and his watch tied on his saddle. Sam Henry and I then swam to the horse and took the saddle off, and came out under a bluff. We had a pretty close call, but reached the bank, where we had a big reunion and something to eat.

There is one incident which I feel I ought to add, as


perhaps it did not fall to the lot of many of the boys to have a similar one. I am the chap who caught the blue mustang mare. This was while we were range herding cattle in Kansas on the Smoky River, near the King Hills, about fifteen miles from old Fort Hayes. This blue mustang would come to our saddle horses at night, and also to the river for water. The boys were all anxious to get her, had set snares made of ropes at the watering places, hoping to get her by the feet, but she always managed to avoid this danger. One day the boys found her with the horses and, on seeing them, she stampeded. I was on the range about the foot of the hills, saw her coming and made for her with my rope ready. To get back to her herd she had to go through a gap in the hills. I was riding a good sorrel horse, an E P horse, raised by Ed Persons of Caldwell County. I made for the gap, getting there just in time and as she started to enter, running at breakneck speed, just in the nick of time I threw my rope ; it went true and fell securely around her neck. When the rope tightened, she jerked my horse fully thirty feet, and both animals went down together, not more than ten feet apart. I scrambled to my feet, getting out of the mixup, but I had my mustang. Manuel Jones and Dan Sheppard, two of the cowboys on the range, coming up about this time, helped me to further secure her and we got her safely back to camp. In time she responded to good treatment, made a fine saddle animal, and, with her long black mane and tail, she was a beauty of which I was justly proud. Good saddle horses could be had cheap at that time, but I sold her near Red River for $65.00.



By Henry Ramsdale of Sabinal, Texas

I came to Texas in 1876, and have been handling cattle nearly ever since. Made my first trip with Joe Collins and had a pretty good time. My next trip was from Llano and Mason Counties. Was attacked by Indians several times and on one occasion we lost all of our horses except the ones we were riding, and one man was killed by the redskins. Had to make the drive from the head of the Concho to the Pecos River, a distance of eighty miles, without water for ourselves or cattle. From there we had a very good trip, but saw Indians nearly every day. I stayed with this outfit until the next spring, when I came back to Texas and settled in Uvalde County, and have been here ever since.


By C. H. Rust of San Angelo, Texas

I will state that from my own knowledge, and from short stories by 35 old early day trail men, most of whom went up the old Chisholm Trail, indicating the Trail by naming rivers and towns, showing same on maps, so, with the long drawn-out investigation, and with all this information from different sources, I believe the old Chisholm Cow trail started at San Antonio, Texas, and ended at Abilene, Kan. Forty-five years have passed since I went over the Trail, and I am using my memory to aid me, especially on the Texas end of the Old Cow Trail.

This old Trail that I attempt to tell you about, begins at San Antonio, and from there leading on to New


Braunfels, thence to San Marcos, crossing the San Marcos River four miles below town, thence to Austin, crossing the Colorado River three miles below "Austin. Leaving Austin the Trail winds its way on to the right of Round Rock, thence to right of Georgetown, on to right of Salado, to the right of Belton, to old Fort Graham, crossing the Brazos River to the left of Cleburne, then to Fort


Worth, winding its way to the right of Fort Worth just about where Hell's Half "Acre used to be, crossing Trinity River just below town. Fort Worth was just a little burg on the bluff where the panther lay down and died.

From Fort Worth the next town was Elizabeth, and from there to Bolivar ; here the old Trail forked, but we kept the main trail up Elm to St. Joe on to Red River


Station, here crossing Red River; after crossing Red River I strike the line of Nation Beaver Creek, thence to Monument Rocks leading on to Stage Station, to head of Rush Creek, then to Little Washita, on to Washita Crossing at Line Creek, from there to Canadian River, to the North Fork, on to Prairie Spring, from there to King Fisher Creek ; thence to Red Fork, on to Turkey Creek, to Hackberry Creek; thence to Shawnee Creek, to Salt Fork ; to Pond Creek, from there to Pole Cat Creek, to Bluff Creek ; thence to Caldwell, line of Kansas River on to Slate Creek to Ne-ne-squaw River ; thence to Cow Skin Creek to "Arkansas River to head of Sand Creek; on to Brookville ; thence from Solomon to Abilene, and from there on to Ellsworth.

I have no definite information as to what year this old Trail was laid out, and if this is not the old Chisholm Cow Trail, then there is no Chisholm Trail. It is just what we call the Old Chisholm Trail, and when the cowboy reached his destination, weary and worn, he forgot all about the rainy nights he experienced while on the Trail, in the companionship of the other Long and Short Horns.

Now, let me test my memory as to distance. I will call the distance from one town to another as the old wagon road runs. From San Antonio to New Braunfels is thirty miles, from New Braunfels to San Marcos, twenty miles ; from San Marcos to "Austin, thirty miles ; from "Austin to Round Rock, seventeen miles, from Round Rock to Georgetown, nine miles ; from Georgetown to Salado, twenty-four miles ; from Salado to Belton, twelve miles ; from Belton to Fort Graham, :sixty-five miles ; from Fort Graham to Cleburne, forty miles ; from Cleburne to Fort Worth, twenty-eight miles.

I note that I do not find in John Chisum's history where he ever drove a herd of cattle from Texas to Kansas, but he drove thousands of cattle into the Pecos Country and New Mexico, about 1864 and 1866.


It is stated that one Jess Chisholm drove cattle to the Nation and Kansas before and during the war, crossing the Red River at Choke Bluff Crossing below Denison. Mr. Sugg also states that this Jess Chisholm was half Indian, and that his ranch was located near the Canadian River. In later years he crossed his herd higher up near Gainesville, so as to reach his ranch on the Canadian.

I note again the Old Cow Trail forked at Bolivar. The route of this right-hand trail crossed the Red River below Gainesville, thence to Oil Springs, on to Fort Arbuckle, crossing Wild Horse Creek, and intersecting the main trail at the south fork of the Canadian River. The last main western trail ran by Coleman, Texas, on to Bell Plain, thence to Baird, on to Albany, from there to Fort Griffin, to Double Mountain Fork, crossing Red River at Doan's Store.

Now here I have one more old trail, and I have a printed map of same. They call it the McCoy Trail. It started at Corpus Christi, leading from there to Austin, thence to Georgetown, on to Buchanan, to Decatur, from there to Red River Station, on to the Red Fork of the "Arkansas River ; thence to Abilene, Kan. "A short story of the life of Wild Bill Hickok goes with the map. I do not think there ever was a cow trail in Texas called the McCoy Trail, but I will state that I am somewhat acquainted with Wild Bill Hickok. He was city marshal of Wichita, Kan., in 1870. I think they are trying to put the "kibosh" on us.

The Old Chisholm Cow Trail varied in width at river crossings from fifty to one hundred yards. In some places it spreads out from one mile to two miles in width. The average drive in a day was eight to ten and twelve miles, and the time on the Trail was from sixty to ninety days, from points in Texas to "Abilene or Newton, or Ellsworth, Kan.

What happened on the Old Cow Trail in those days of long ago is almost forgotten, and it is a sad thought


to us today that there is no stone or mile post to mark the Old Trail's location. The old-time cow puncher that followed the Trail, his mount, his make-up, the old Trail songs that he sang, what he did and how he did it, is left yet to someone to give him the proper place in history.

What he was then and what he is now, I hope to meet him over there in the Sweet Bye and Bye, where no mavericks or slicks will be tallied.


C. H. Rust, San Angelo, Texas

What has become of the old-fashioned boy that went in his shirt tail until 10 or 11 years old, that being about the only garment he possessed during the summer months?

He could step up to an old rail fence and if he could hang his chin on the top rail, he would step back and leap over it and his shirt tail would make a kind of a fluttering noise as he went over.

What has become of the old-fashioned boy that used to run away from home on Sunday to the old swimming hole on the river five or ,six miles from home, where the alligators were lying round on the banks of the river, seven and eight feet long, and, when he returned home in the evening, what has become of the old-fashioned mother that called him up for a reckoning and when she began to pry into his private affairs and became convinced that he was lying? When she got through with him, he went off behind the old ash hopper and got himself together as best he could, then he meditated and resolved to ask his mother's pardon, and the big swimming hole on the river was a closed matter.

What has become of the old-fashioned boys and girls


that danced the square dance to the tune of "Cotton Eyed Joe," "Old Dan Tucker," "Black Jack Grove," "Hogs in the Cornfield," "Cackling Hens," and the "Old Gray .Horse Came Tearing Through the Wilderness'?"

What has become of the old-fashioned boy and girl that became one in wedlock when they went just across the spring branch from the old folks on the slope of the hill and built a house under the shadow of the old oak tree and raised a family and lived for God and humanity?


By G. H. Mohle, Lockhart, Texas

In April, 1869, I was employed by Black Bill Mongomery to go with a herd of 4,500 head of stock cattle


on the drive to Abilene, Kansas. We started from Lockhart and crossed the Colorado River below "Austin, out by way of Georgetown, Waxahachie and on to Red River, which we found very high. We were several days getting the herd across this stream. The first day I crossed over with about a thousand head and came back and worked the rest of the day in the water, but could not get any more of the cattle across on account of the wind and waves. Two of the boys and myself went across with grub enough for supper and breakfast, but the next day


the weather was so bad the others could not cross to bring us something to eat and we were compelled to go hungry for forty-eight hours. The next night about twelve o'clock we heard yelling and shouting, but thinking it might be Indians, we remained quiet and did not know until noon the next day that it was some of the boys of our outfit who had brought us some grub, which we found hanging in a tree. The third day the balance of the herd was crossed over without further trouble. Flies and mosquitoes were very bad, and kept us engaged in fighting them off.

When we reached the North Fork of the Canadian River it was also pretty high, on account of heavy rains. The water was level with the bank on this side, but on the far side the bank was about six feet above the water and the going out place being only about twenty feet wide. We had trouble getting the cattle into the water, and when they did get started they crowded in so that they could not get out on the other side, and began milling, and we lost one hundred and sixteen head and three horses. When we arrived at the Arkansas River we found it out of its banks and we were compelled to wait several days for it to run down. We were out of provisions, and tried to purchase some from a government train which was camped at this point. This wagon train was loaded with flour and bacon, en route to Fort Sill. The man in charge refused to sell us anything, so when the guard was absent we "borrowed" enough grub to last us until we could get some more. When the flood stage had passed we crossed the river and reached Abilene, Kansas, the latter part of June, camping there a month, and finally sold the cattle to Mr. Evans of California for $25 per head, with the understanding that Black Bill Montgomery, Bill Henderson, myself and Gov, the negro cook, were to go along with the cattle. Mr. Evans also bought the horses.

About the first of August we started for California.


When we reached the Republican River a cyclone struck us, turned our wagon over, and scattered things generally. Mr. Evans had a large tent. It went up in the air and we saw it no more. We next reached the Platte River. where we camped for several days to allow the cattle to graze and rest. On account of quicksand in the river we had to go up the stream about twenty-five miles to make a crossing. At Platte City we purchased a supply of provisions, and went on up the northwest side of the river about a hundred miles, to where about five hundred soldiers were camped. We camped about a quarter of a mile above the soldiers' camp, and thought we were pretty safe from Indian attack, but one night about three o'clock we were awakened by an awful noise. We thought it was a passing railroad train, but instead it was our horses being driven off by Indians right along near our camp. As they passed us the Indians fired several shots in. our direction, but no one was hit. We had sixty-three horses and the red rascals captured all of them except five head. Mr. Evans sent one of the hands to notify the soldiers of our loss and get them on the trail of the Indians. It was nine o'clock the next morning before the soldiers passed our camp in pursuit, and as the Indians had such a good start, they were never overtaken. We remained there all day, and the next morning we started out afoot. For about a week we felt pretty sore from walking, as we were not used to this kind of herding. When we reached Cheyenne we secured mounts and laid iii a supply of grub and traveled up Crow Creek to Cheyenne Pass, where we had our first blizzard and snow.

The next morning the snow was six inches deep and the weather was bitterly cold. Our next town was Fort Laramie, and from there we went on to Elk Mountain on the Overland Immigrant Trail to California, where we stopped for three days because of the heavy snow. We had very little trouble until we reached Bitter Creek,


called Barrel Springs on account of many barrels having been placed in the ground and served as water springs. Here we cut out five hundred of the cattle because they were not able to keep up. Five of us were left to bring them on, and we traveled down the creek for a distance of about twenty miles. One day at noon we camped and some of the cattle drank water in the creek, and within twenty minutes they died. I drank from a spring on the side of the mountain, thinking the water was good, and in a short while I thought I was going to die too. An Irishman came along and I told him I was sick from drinking the water, and he informed me that it was very poisonous. He carried me to a store and bought me some whiskey and pretty soon I was able to travel. We went up Green River and crossed it at the mouth of Hamsford, and then crossed the divide between Wyoming and Utah. The temperature was down to zero, and when we reached the little town of Clarksville, Utah, we remained there two weeks. Mr. Evans sent the cattle up into the mountains, and we took stage for Corrine, just north of Salt Lake City, where we boarded the train for home.

EDITOR'S NOTE.—Mr. Mohle, the writer of the above sketch, died at his home in Lockhart, Texas, October 11, 1918, aged 71 years.)


By S. A. Hickok, Karnes City, Texas

I was born at Columbus, Ohio, December 8th, 1842, and moved to Mattoon, Illinois, when I was about twenty-four years old and engaged in buying chickens, turkeys, ducks and geese and shipping them by carload to New Orleans, Louisiana.

When I would go to New Orleans with my shipment


of poultry I heard a great deal about Texas, and the money that was to be made in sending cattle up the trail, so I decided to move to Texas. I met a man by the name of Couch who was making up a party to go on an excursion train to Dallas, Texas, and made arrangements to meet him in Saint Louis and join the excursion party there. My brother accompanied me to Saint Louis, and a short while after our arrival we passed a man on the street and he said, "Hello, Younger." I told him he was mistaken, that my name was not Younger. He asked me if I was not from Marshall, Missouri, and I told him that I was not. We went to a cheap boarding house and made arrangements to stay all night. We went to the Southern Hotel that night to see if Couch had arrived. While we were there a man came in and asked me if I was from Marshall County, and I replied, "No ; I have been asked that question twice today." He then called me aside and asked me .several questions, and just then motioned a policeman to come near. They asked me if I was armed and I told them that it was none of their business, but as they insisted on searching me I told them to proceed, but be sure they had the proper authority for their action. They found a small six-shooter, a draft for $1,000, and about $100 in cash on me, and the policeman said he would have to take me down to the police station. When we arrived there I learned that they thought that they had Cole Younger, one of the Jesse James desperadoes. I told them to telegraph the First National Bank of Mattoon, Illinois, and they could get all the information they needed to establish my identity. But they locked me up in a cell and kept me there over night. Next day they released me, and returned my pistol and money to me.

I reached Dallas in the Spring of 1875, and went to Fort Worth, which was then a small place. My brother and I purchased a pair of Mexican ponies, a new wagon and camping outfit and started for San "Antonio. Near


Burnett we met a man who had a ranch and some sheep in Bandera County, and we went with him and bought six hundred head of sheep, thus embarking in the sheep business, doing our own herding, shearing, cooking and washing. We had hard sledding for a long time, but finally achieved success. We moved our herd from Bandera County to the southeast corner of "Atascosa County, near the line of Live Oak and Karnes Counties, where I located a ranch of 15,000 acres in 1877 or 1878. There I engaged in sheep raising for several years, finally selling out and buying horses and cattle. I went to the border on the Rio Grande, and bought many horses and mares and drove them to Kansas. The next year I went over into Mexico and bought several hundred horses, which I kept on the ranch for about a year and then shipped them and many more which I had bought at different times to Ohio, New York, Nebraska, Tennessee, "Arkansas and Mississippi.


By S. B. Brite of Pleasanton, Texas

Like most of the boys of the early days, I had to sow my wild oats, and I regret to say that I also sowed all of the money I made right along with the oats. I went up the trail in 1882 with a herd belonging to Jim Ellison of Caldwell County, delivering the cattle at Caldwell, Kansas. I went again in 1884 with Mark Withers, starting from the Tigre ranch in LaSalle County, where Mr. J. M. Dobie now lives. When we reached the Canadian River it was on a rise, and we drowned a horse which was hitched to the chuck wagon. While making this crossing a negro's horse sank in the middle of the river and left the rider standing on a sandbar. After we crossed the cattle over I swam my horse out and allowed the negro


to swing to his tail, and thus ferried him across. The


negro thanked me and said that horse's tail was just like the "hand of Providence." We delivered the cattle on the Platte River and I returned to the Tigre ranch, where I worked for seven years. While on this ranch one day Gus Withers, the boss, picked out a fine bay horse and told me that if I could ride him I could use him for a saddle horse. I managed to mount him, but after I got up there I had to "choke the horn and claw leather," but to no avail, for he dumped me off in the middle of a big prickly pear bush. When the boys pulled me out of that bush they found that my jacket was nailed to my back as securely as if the job had been done with six-penny nails.

I went up the trail twice, and drove the drag both times, did all the hard work, got all the "cussin'," but had the good luck never to get "fired."


By Jeff M. White of Pleasanton, Texas

I was born in Palmyra, Marion County, Missouri, October 20th, 1831. In the spring of 1852 a bunch of us were stricken with the gold fever. We rigged up three ox wagons, five yoke to a wagon, and started on the 13th day of April, 1852, for the California gold mines. We


crossed the Mississippi River at Savannah, Holt County, Missouri, on the 3rd day of May. At this time this country belonged to the Sioux Indians, being their hunting grounds. However, we had no trouble with them. The first white people we saw after leaving the Missouri River were a few soldiers at Fort Karney on the Platte River. Regarding these .soldiers will say they were in no condition to protect anyone, as it looked as though they had not washed their faces in months. However, they were good card players. We forded the South Platte and went across to the North Platte and proceeded up that stream to Fort Laramie. We also found a few soldiers here in about the same condition as the others, and we did not look to them for any protection. We crossed the middle fork of the Platte above Fort Laramie on a bridge and from there we went north to the North Platte. We traveled up this stream to the Mormon Ferry. Before reaching this Mormon Ferry we passed some two or three times a big black Dutchman rolling a wheelbarrow. The Mormons put him across ahead of us, giving him a bottle of whiskey and some buffalo meat, and this is the last we ever saw of him.

The next water we found was the Sweetwater River, but will say the water was not sweet, but as fine as I ever drank. The first curiosity we found was the Chimney Rock. This was on the south side of the North Platte. The base of this rock covered some five or six acres of the ground and extended in the air to a height of approximately four hundred feet, and from this there extended a smaller stem some ten or twelve feet in diameter and must have been eighty or more feet high and was soft sand rock.

After crossing the Sweetwater River we found another curiosity called the Independence Rock. This rock is on the Old Fremont Trail and this is where Fremont ate his Fourth of July dinner on July 4th, 1847, hence the name Independence Rock. Where the Sweetwater


River comes out of the Rocky Mountains is a solid rock gap claimed to be three hundred feet deep. I know it was so deep we couldn't look over into it without laying down flat on our stomachs. From here we proceeded to what is called the South Pass, a low flat place in the Rocky Mountains, and some two days' travel brought us to a place where the roads forked. "At this place we held an election to determine which road to take, the left road going to Salt Lake City and the right-hand road was the Fremont Trail going west. The majority voted to go by Salt Lake City. Will say, before reaching the forks of this road, we had overtaken another party, called the Priest Train, making a total of seven wagons and twenty- eight men.

On our road to Salt Lake City we had to go into what is called Echo Canyon. The Mormons, on going down into this canyon, let their wagons down by putting ropes and chains around trees that grew upon the side of the canyon and fastening same to rear of wagon. When we reached this place the trees were all dead, so we took all the oxen loose except the wheel team and fastened them to the rear axle and let the wagon down into the canyon. It required half a day to let our seven wagons down. After getting down into this canyon the road travels down same into the Salt Lake Valley.

Will also add that our principal fuel on this trip was buffalo chips, but west of the Rocky Mountains there were no buffalo so we used cow chips.

It is eight hundred miles from Salt Lake City to California and there were only two different tribes of Indians, the Utahs and Piutes. In the summer time the Piutes live mostly on roasted lizards and grasshoppers, there being no game in this part of the country to amount to anything, only a few scattering black tail deer.

We arrived in Salt Lake City a day or two before the Fourth of July, 1852, and spent the Fourth there. About


all the celebration was a few horse races on the main street of the city. At this time it was a small town, there being only two good houses in the town, the Mormon Temple and Brigham Young's Temple. At this time it was told by the Mormons that Brigham Young had some sixty-odd wives and, of course, it required a large house to hold them.

We were never bothered by the Indians, as we watched them day and night, and an Indian is good only when he is watched. I never saw one with a gun or pistol on the entire trip. Their fighting weapons were bow and arrows, tomahawk and scalping or bowie knives.

After leaving Salt Lake City we crossed the River Jordan and the next water was a good spring at the head of the Humbolt River. This river, however, is three hundred and thirty miles long, running through a flat alkali country, and the worst water a human or beast ever tried to drink. It spreads out and sinks into the earth, not emptying into any other stream. While traveling down this stream one of our men took sick and we had no good water for him. While nooning one day, on this stream, one of the boys went fishing with a little fly hook not larger than a sewing thread and caught four or five fish. When he returned' he found an old Piute Indian in camp. This Indian wanted to see what our boy had caught the fish with and when the boy showed him the hook he examined it very closely and, from his actions, it seemed this was the first hook he had ever seen. He had on an old ragged coat and from the tail of this he unwound a string and brought out a Mexican dollar and gave it to the boy for the fish-hook. This old Indian having a Mexican dollar was as much a curiosity to us as the fish-hook was to him. He was four hundred miles from Salt Lake City and about the same distance from California or any white settlement, and the question was "Where did he get the Mexican dollar'?" Where this Humbolt River sinks into the earth we cut grass and


filled our wagons to feed our stock on, as we had to cross a desert fifty miles wide, and filled all of our water kegs so as to give stock water that night, and this was all the water they had until we crossed the desert. The last twelve miles of this trip was deep white sand. It took a day and night to cross this desert and we fed our stock one time and gave them one drink. This brought us to Carson River, where our sick man died. We rolled him in his blankets, as we had no coffin, and buried him under a large elm tree, covering him the best we could with timber and dirt. We traveled up the Carson River, the worst road we had on the entire trip, crossing the Sierra Nevadas and followed the slope to Hangtown, California, the first mining town we struck. There we sold out everything we had in the shape of teams and wagons. We arrived there the 27th day of August, 1852. This being Dry Diggings, meaning no gold to be found, after resting a few days we all scattered and went to the South Fork of the "American River and four or five of the boys I have never seen or heard of since. I know they never came back home. After staying about two years and a half I returned home. I was the youngest of the outfit, being only 20 years old, and was called a 20-year-old boy.


By Walter Smith, Del Rio, Texas

It made me feel twenty-five years younger to attend the reunion of the Old Trail Drivers in San "Antonio, for I met so many of my old boyhood friends, many of them I had not seen in forty-five years, boys that I had been associated with during the early days of the frontier.

I was born at Corpus Christi, May 8th, 1856, and


moved to San Antonio when I was six years old. Went to school at the old Free School house which stood on Houston Street in that city. San "Antonio was then only a small adobe town. In 1869 I landed in Uvalde in an ox-wagon owned by Bill Lewis of the Nueces Canyon. There were only six ranches in the canyon at that time, but lots of Indians were there to harass the few settlers, We had many narrow escapes, but we were a happy and seemingly contented people. I have lived on the Western frontier ever since I reached manhood, and have had many thrilling experiences and hard trials, but have lived through all down to this day of the high cost of everything. We lived then on the fat of the land, and that was not a luxury. Our food was plain but wholesome, and if the people of today would be content with the table comforts we had in those days the doctors' signs would soon disappear.

I went up the trail six different times, the last herd being driven from Uvalde County in 1882 for the Western Union Beef Company to the South Platte River, Colorado. I have had so many ups and downs that if I were to undertake to tell all of them it would more than fill this volume.

Was married at Uvalde, Texas, May 8th, 1879, to Sarah A. Fulgham, and we have had eleven children, eight of whom are still living.


By W. E. Cureton of Meridian, Texas

I was born in the Ozark Mountains of "Arkansas, in 1848, came to Texas with my father, Captain Jack Cureton, in the winter of 1854–55; settled on or near the Brazos River below old Fort Belknap in what is now


Palo Pinto County, and began raising cattle. The county was organized in 1857.


In 1867 we (my father and John C. Cureton) drove a herd of grown steers from Jim Ned, a tributary of the Colorado of Texas, now in Coleman County, up the Concho at a time when the Coffees and Tankersleys were the only inhabitants there. That year the government began the building of Fort Concho, which is now a part of the thrifty little city of San Angelo. The Indians killed a Dutchman and scalped and partly skinned him a little ahead of us, and Captain Snively, with a gold hunting outfit, had quite a skirmish along the Concho with them.

From the head waters on the Concho we made a ninety-six-mile drive to Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos River without giving the cattle a good watering. Our trail was the old military stage route used by the government before the Civil War. The Indians had killed a man and wounded a woman ahead of us at the old adobe walls at Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos, and captured a herd of cattle belonging to John Gamel and Isaac W. Cox of Mason, Texas. A few miles above Horsehead Crossing the Indians stole eleven head of our horses one night ; only having two horses to the man, we felt the loss of half our mounts very severely. A little further up the river the Indians wounded Uncle Oliver Loving, the father of J. C. and George B. of the noted Loving family of the upper Brazos country and the founder of the great Texas Cattle Raisers' Association. The old


man died at Fort Sumner of his wounds. They also killed Billy Corley, one of Lynch & Cooper's men, from Shackleford County, the same drive.

We left the Pecos near where now stands the town of Roswell, and traveled up the Hondo out by Fort Stanton over the divide to San "Augustine Springs, near the Rio Grande, and wintered the cattle and sold them in the spring of 1868 to Hinds & Hooker, who were the United States contractors to feed the soldiers and Indians, as they were pretending to subdue and keep the Indians on reservations, but in reality were equipping them so they could depredate more efficiently on the drovers and emigrants.

In the summer of 1869 I sold a bunch of grown steers in Palo Pinto County, Texas, to Dr. D. B. Warren of Missouri, and we trailed them to Baxter Springs, Kansas. We swam Red River at the old Preston Ferry. We camped near the river the night before and tried to cross early in the morning. The river was very full of muddy water, and the cattle refused to take the water. "After all hands had about exhausted themselves Dr. Warren, who was his own boss, said to me : "William, what will we do about it " I answered him that we had better back out and graze the cattle until the sun got up so they could see the other bank, and they would want water and go across. "You should know that you can't swim cattle across as big a stream as this going east in the morning or going west late of an evening with the sun in their faces." About one P.M. we put them back on the trail and by the time the drags got near the river the leaders were climbing the east bank. The doctor looked at me and said, "Well, I'll be damned— every man to his profession."

In the spring of 1870 my father took his family along, and turned over more than eleven hundred cattle to us boys, John C. and J. W., to drive to California. We went out over the old Concho Trail to the Rio Pecos, up the


river to the Hondo, out by the Gallina Mountains, crossing the Rio Grande at Old "Albuquerque, over to and down the Little Colorado of the West ; through New Mexico into Arizona, by where Flagstaff is now ; on the Santa Fe` Railroad, parallel to the Grand Canyon on the south side of the Colorado; crossed the Colorado at Hardyville above the Needles; crossed over the California desert; climbed over the Sierra Nevadas and wintered the cattle between San Bernardino and Los "Angeles in California, a fifteen-hundred-mile drive. In the spring of 1871 we drove the cattle back across the Sierras, north up the east side of the mountains to the head of Owens River, where we fattened them on the luxurious California meadows; then drove them to Reno, Nevada, five hundred miles from our wintering grounds, and sold them, and Miller & Lux, the millionaire butchers of San Francisco, shipped them to their slaughtering plant in San Francisco, California—and, by the way, the firm still controls the California market there. We paid ten dollars for grown steers in Texas; got thirty dollars after driving them two thousand miles and consuming two years on the trip. "After all, I honor the old long horn; he was able to furnish his own transportation to all the markets before the advent of railroads.

I made many other trips, but think these will give a fair idea of the hardships of the pioneers.

I have been interested in cattle raising for sixty years, ranching in Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California during that time, but always claimed Texas as home ; was a schoolboy with the late Colonel C. C. Slaughter of Dallas and George T. Reynolds of Fort Worth more than sixty years ago.



By Joseph S. Cruze, Sr., San Antonio, Texas.



My parents, William and Isabella Cruze, came to the Republic of Texas in 1840 and located on the Brazos River in Washington County. There I was born July 27th, 1845, and when I was three. months old father placed a buffalo hair pillow on the horn of his saddle, placed me thereon, mounted his horse and was ready to emigrate west with his family. He settled on Onion Creek, nine miles south of Austin, near the Colorado River, where he remained for several years, then in 1854 we moved to the central part of Hays County, where father died in 1856.

I enlisted in the Confederate Army in 1862, received my discharge in 1865, and returned home to my widowed mother. On July 24th, 1865, I was married to Miss Mary Kate Cox of Hays County.

In the years 1870 and 1871 I drove cattle to Kansas over the old Chisholm Trail. I remember the killing of Pete Owens, who was with the same herd I was with. We had reached the Cross Timbers of Texas, and passed


a ranch where booze was sold. There was a row and Pete was shot and killed. He was a good friend to me, we had been soldier comrades for nearly three years, worked cattle together, and I loved him as a brother. Billie Owens, known to many of the old trail drivers, was his brother. The Owens boys were good soldiers, upright, honest and brave men.

In those days the cowmen underwent many hardships, survived many hair-breadth escapes and dangers while blazing our way through the wilderness. My comrades yet living have not forgotten what we had to endure. Everything was then tough, wild and woolly, and it was dangerous to be safe.

In September, 1866, I settled on Loneman Creek, in Hays County, near the Blanco River, and established the Cruze Ranch, which I sold to my son, S. J. Cruze, in 1917, and moved to San Antonio with my wife and two daughters, Margaret and Addie, and my grandson, Forest Harlan. I have a nice little home in Los "Angeles Heights, and would be glad to hear from any of my old friends at any time.

My address is Route 10, Box 101a, Los Angeles Heights, San "Antonio.


By Jack Potter of Kenton, Oklahoma.

In the spring of 1882, the New England Livestock Co. bought three thousand short horns in Southwest Texas, cut them into four herds and started them on the trail to Colorado, with King Hennant of Corpus Christi in charge of the first herd, "Asa Clark of Legarta the second herd, Billie Burke the third herd, and John Smith of San Antonio in charge of the fourth. When they reached a point near San Antonio, Smith asked me to go with the


herd at $30 a month and transportation back. Now, friends, it will not take long


to tell my experiences going up the trail, but it will require several pages to recount what I had to endure coming back home.

There was no excitement whatever on this drive. It was to me very much like a summer's outing in the Rocky Mountains. We went out by way of Fredericksburg, Mason and Brady City, and entered the Western trail at Cow Gap, going through Albany near Fort Griffin, where we left the Western trail and selected a route through to Trinidad, Colorado, via Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos, Wichita and Pease Rivers to the Charles Goodnight ranch on the Staked Plains. We had several stampedes while crossing the plains.

En route we saw thousands of antelope crossing the trail in front of the herd. We crossed the Canadian at Tuscosa. This was a typical cowboy town, and at this time a general roundup was in progress, and I believe there were a hundred and fifty cow-punchers in the place. They had taken a day off to celebrate, and as there were only seven saloons in Tuscosa they were all doing a flourishing business. We had trouble in crossing the river with our herd, as those fellows were riding up and down the streets yelling and shooting.

Our next point was over the Dim Trail and freight road to Trinidad, Colorado, where we arrived the tenth of July. Here the manager met us and relieved two of the outfits, saying the country up to the South Platte was easy driving and that they would drift the horses along with two outfits instead of four. The manager


and King Hennant made some medicine and called for the entire crews of John Smith and "Asa Clark, and told Billie Burke to turn his crew over to Hennant, who was to take charge of the whole drive. I was disappointed, for I did not want to spoil the summer with a two months' drive. They called the men up one at a time and gave them their checks. However, King Hennant arranged with the manager for me to remain with them, and then it was agreed to send me with some of the cow ponies to the company's cattle ranch in the Big Horn Basin later on.

The drive up the South Platte was fine. We traveled for three hundred miles along the foothills of the Rockies, where we were never out of sight of the snowy ranges. We went out by way of La Junta, Colorado, on the Santa Fe`, and then to Deer Trail. We would throw our two herds together at night and the next morning again cut them into two herds for the trail. We arrived at the South Platte River near Greeley, Colorado, about the tenth of August.

The itch or ronia had broken out on the trail and in those days people did not know how to treat it successfully. Our manager sent us a wagon load of kerosene and sulphur with which to fight the disease.

When we reached Cow Creek we turned the herds loose and began building what is known as the Crow Ranch. I worked here thirty days and it seemed like thirty years. One day the manager came out and gave instructions to shape up a herd of one hundred and fifty select cow ponies to be taken to the Big Horn Ranch, and I was chosen to go with the outfit. This was the first time I had seen an outfit fixed up in the North. I supposed we would get a pack horse and fit up a little outfit and two of us hike out with them. It required two days to get started. The outfit consisted of a wagon loaded with chuck, a big wall tent, cots to sleep on, a stove, and a number one cook. We hit the trail, and it was another


outing for me, for this time we were traveling in new fields.

After leaving Cheyenne we pulled out for Powder River and then up to Sheridan. The weather was getting cold and I began to get homesick. When we reached the Indian country I was told that it was only one day's drive to Custer's battleground. I was agreeably surprised the next morning as we came down a long slope into the Little Big Horn Valley to the battleground. I was under the impression that Sitting Bull had hemmed Custer up in a box canyon and came up from behind and massacred his entire army. But that was a mistake, as Sitting Bull with his warriors was camped in the beautiful valley when Custer attacked him in the open. It seems that the Indians retreated slowly up a gradual slope to the east and Custer's men followed. The main fight took place at the top of the rise, as there is a headstone where every soldier fell, and a monument where Custer was killed.

The balance of that day we passed thousands of Indians who were going the same direction we were traveling. When they go to the agency to get their monthly allowance they take along everything with them, each family driving their horses in a separate bunch. When we arrived at the Crow Agency the boss received a letter from the manager instructing him to send me back to Texas, as the company were contracting for cattle for spring delivery, and I would be needed in the trail drives. The next morning I roped my favorite horse and said to the boys : "Good-bye, fellows, I am drifting south where the climate suits my clothes." That day I overtook an outfit on the way to Ogallala, and traveled with them several days, and then cut out from them and hiked across the prairie one hundred and fifty miles to the Crow ranch, where I sold my two horses and hired a party to take me and my saddle to Greeley, where set out for home.


Coming Off the Trail

Now, reader, here I was, a boy not yet seventeen years old, two thousand miles from home. I had never been on a railroad train, had never slept in a hotel, never taken a bath in a bath house, and from babyhood I had heard terrible stories about ticket thieves, money-changers, pickpockets, three-card monte, and other robbing schemes, and I had horrors about this, my first railroad trip. The first thing I did was to make my money safe by tying it up in my shirt tail. I had a draft for $150 and some currency. I purchased a second-hand trunk and about two hundred feet of rope with which to tie it. The contents of the trunk were one apple-horn saddle, a pair of chaps, a Colt's 45, one sugan, a hen-skin blanket, and a change of dirty clothes. You will see later that this trunk and its contents caused me no end of trouble.

My cowboy friends kindly assisted me in getting ready for the journey. The company had agreed to provide me with transportation, and they purchased a local ticket to Denver for me and gave me a letter to deliver to the general ticket agent at this point, instructing him to sell me a reduced ticket to Dodge City, Kansas, and enable me to secure a cowboy ticket from there to San "Antonio for twenty-five dollars. Dodge City was the largest delivering point in the Northwest, and by the combined efforts of several prominent stockmen a cheap rate to San Antonio had been perfected for the convenience of the hundreds of cowboys returning home after the drives.

About four P.M. the Union Pacific train came pulling into Greeley. Then it was a hasty handshake with the boys. One of them handed me my trunk check, saying, "Your baggage is loaded. Good-bye, write me when you get home," and the train pulled out. It took several minutes for me to collect myself, and then the conductor


came through and called for the tickets. When I handed him my ticket he punched a hole in it, and then pulled out a red slip, punched it, too, and slipped it into my hatband. I jumped to my feet and said, "You can't come that on me. Give me back my ticket," but he passed out of hearing, and as I had not yet learned how to walk on a moving train, I could not follow him. When I had become fairly settled in my seat again the train crossed a bridge, and as it went by I thought the thing was going to hit me on the head. I dodged those bridges all the way up to Denver. When I reached there I got off at the Union Station and walked down to the baggage car, and saw them unloading my trunk. I stepped up and said: "I I will take my trunk." A man said, "No; we are handling this baggage." "But," said I, "that is my trunk, and has my saddle and gun in it." They paid no attention to me and wheeled the trunk off to the baggage room, but I followed right along, determined that they were not going to put anything over me. Seeing that I was so insistent one of the men asked me for the check. It was wrapped up in my shirt tail, and I went after it, and produced the draft I had been given as wages. He looked at it and said, "This is not your trunk check. Where is your metal check with numbers on it?" Then it began to dawn on me what the darn thing was, and when I produced it and handed it to him, he asked me where I was going. I told him to San Antonio, Texas, if I could get there. I then showed him my letter to the general ticket agent, and he said : "Now, boy, you leave this trunk right here and we will recheck it and you need not bother about it." That sounded bully to me.

I followed the crowd down Sixteenth and Curtiss Streets and rambled around looking for a quiet place to stop. I found the St. Charles Hotel and made arrangements to stay all night. Then I went off to a barber shop to get my hair cut and clean up a bit. When the barber


finished with me he asked if I wanted a bath, and when I said yes, a negro porter took me down the hallway and into a side room. lie turned on the water, tossed me a couple of towels and disappeared. I commenced undressing hurriedly, fearing the tub would fill up before I could get ready. The water was within a few inches of the top of the tub when I plunged in. Then I gave a yell like a Comanche Indian, for the water was boiling hot! I came out of the tub on all fours, but when I landed on the marble floor it was so slick that I slipped and fell backwards with my head down. I scrambled around promiscuously, and finally got my footing with a chair for a brace. I thought : "Jack Potter, you are scalded after the fashion of a hog." I caught a lock of my hair to see if it would "slip," at the same time fanning myself with my big Stetson hat. I next examined my toe nails, for they had received a little more dipping than my hair, but I found them in fairly good shape, turning a bit dark, but still hanging on.

That night I went to the Tabor Opera House and saw a fine play. There I found a cowboy chum, and we took in the sights until midnight, when I returned to the St. Charles. The porter showed me up to my room and turned on the gas. When he had gone I undressed to go to bed, and stepped up to blow out the light. I blew and blew until I was out of breath, and then tried to fan the flame out with my hat, but I had to go to bed and leave the gas burning. It was fortunate that I did not succeed, for at that time the papers were full of accounts of people gassed just that way.

The next morning I started out to find the Santa Fe ticket office, where I presented my letter to the head man there. He was a nice appearing gentleman, and when he had looked over the letter he said, "So you are a genuine cowboy? Where is your gun and how many notches have you on its handle? I suppose you carry plenty of salt with you on the trail for emergency? I was just reading


in a magazine a few days ago about a large herd which stampeded and one of the punchers mounted a swift horse and ran up in front of the leaders and began throwing out salt, and stopped the herd just in time to keep them from running off a high precipice." I laughed heartily when he told me this and said, "My My friend, you can't learn the cow business out of books. That yarn was hatched in the brain of some fiction writer who probably never saw a cow in his life. But I am pleased to find a railroad man who will talk, for I always heard that a railroad man only used two words, Yes and No." Then we had quite a pleasant conversation. He asked me if I was ever in Albert's Buckhorn saloon in San Antonio and saw the collection of fine horns there. Then he gave me an emigrant cowboy ticket to Dodge City and a letter to the agent at that place stating that I was eligible for a cowboy ticket to San Antonio.

As it was near train time I hunted up the baggage crew and told them I was ready to make another start. I showed them my ticket and asked them about my trunk. They examined it, put on a new check, and gave me one with several numbers on it. I wanted to take the trunk out and put it on the train, but they told me to rest easy and they would put it on. I stood right there until I saw them put it on the train, then I climbed aboard.

This being my second day out, I thought my troubles should be over, but not so, for I couldn't face those bridges. They kept me dodging and fighting my head. An old gentleman who sat near me said, "Young man, I see by your dress that you are a typical cowboy, and no doubt you can master the worst bronco or rope and tie a steer in less than a minute, but in riding on a railway train you seem to be a novice. Sit down on this seat with your back to the front and those bridges will not bother you." And sure enough it was just as he said.

We arrived at Coolidge, Kansas, one of the old


landmarks of the Santa Fe` trail days, about dark. That night at twelve o'clock we reached Dodge City, where I had to lay over for twenty-four hours. I thought everything would be quiet in the town at that hour of the night, but I soon found out that they never slept in Dodge. They had a big dance hall there which was to Dodge City what Jack Harris' Theater was to San Antonio. I arrived at the hall in time to see a gambler and a cowboy mix up in a six-shooter duel. Lots of smoke, a stampede, but no one killed. I secured a room and retired. When morn- ing came I arose and fared forth to see Dodge City by daylight. It seemed to me that the town was full of cowboys and cattle owners. The first acquaintance I met here was George W. Saunders, now the president and chief remudero of the Old Trail Drivers. I also found Jesse Pressnall and Slim Johnson there, as well as several others whom I knew down in Texas. Pressnall said to me : "Jack, you will have lots of company on your way home. Old `Dog Face' Smith is up here from Cotulla and he and his whole bunch are going back tonight. Old `Dog Face' is one of the best trail men that ever drove a cow, but he is all worked up about having to go back on a train. I wish you would help them along down the line in changing cars." That afternoon I saw a couple of chuck wagons coming in loaded with punchers, who had on the same clothing they wore on the trail, their pants stuck in their boots and their spurs on. They were bound for San Antonio. Old "Dog Face" Smith was a typical Texan, about thirty years of age, with long hair and three months' growth of whiskers. He wore a blue shirt and a red cotton handkerchief around his neck. He had a bright, intelligent face that bore the appearance of a good trail hound, which no doubt was the cause of people calling him "Dog Face."

It seemed a long time that night to wait for the train and we put in time visiting every saloon in the town. There was a big stud poker game going on in one place,


and I saw one Texas fellow, whose name I will not mention, lose a herd of cattle at the game. But he might have won the herd back before daylight.

I will never forget seeing that train come into Dodge City that night. Old "Dog Face" and his bunch were pretty badly frightened and we had considerable difficulty in getting them aboard. It was about 12:30 when the train pulled out. The conductor came around and I gave him my cowboy ticket. It was almost as long as your arm, and as he tore off a chunk of it I said: "What authority have you to tear up a man's ticket?" He laughed and said, "You are on my division. I simply tore off one coupon and each conductor between here and San "Antonio will tear off one for each division." That sounded all right, but I wondered if that ticket would hold out all the way down.

Everyone seemed to be tired and worn out and the bunch began bedding down. Old "Dog Face" was out of humor, and was the last one to bed down. "At about three o'clock our train was sidetracked to let the westbound train pass. This little stop caused the boys to sleep the sounder. Just then the westbound train sped by traveling at the rate of about forty miles an hour, and just as it passed our coach the engineer blew the whistle. Talk about your stampedes ! That bunch of sleeping cowboys arose as one man, and started on the run with old "Dog Face" Smith in the lead. I was a little slow in getting off, but fell in with the drags. I had not yet woke up, but thinking I was in a genuine cattle stampede, yelled out, "Circle your leaders and keep up the drags." Just then the leaders circled and ran into the drags, knocking some of us down. They circled again and the news butcher crawled out from under foot and jumped through the window like a frog. Before they could circle back the next time, the train crew pushed in the door and caught old "Dog Face" and soon the bunch quieted down. The conductor was pretty


angry and threatened to have us transferred to the freight department and loaded into a stock car.

We had breakfast at Hutchinson, and after eating and were again on our way, speeding through the beautiful farms and thriving towns of Kansas, we organized a kan- garoo court and tried the engineer of that westbound train for disturbing the peace of passengers on the east- bound train. We heard testimony all morning, and called in some of the train crew to testify. One of the brake- men said it was an old trick for that engineer to blow the whistle at that particular siding and that he was undoubtedly the cause of a great many stampedes. The jury brought in a verdict of guilty and assessed the death penalty. It was ordered that he be captured, taken to some place on the western trail, there to be hog-tied like a steer, and then have the road brand applied with a good hot iron and a herd of not less than five thousand long-horn Texas steers made to stampede and trample him to death.

We had several hours' lay-over at Emporia, Kansas, where we took the M., K. & T. for Parsons, getting on the main line through Indian Territory to Denison, Texas. There was a large crowd of punchers on the through train who were returning from Ogallala by way of Kansas City and Omaha.

As we were traveling through the Territory old "Dog Face" said to me : "Potter, I expect it was me that started that stampede up there in Kansas, but I just couldn't help it. You see, I took on a scare once and since that time I have been on the hair trigger when sud- denly awakened. In the year 1875 me and Wild Horse Jerry were camped at a water hole out west of the Nueces River, where we were snaring mustangs. One evening a couple of peloncias pitched camp nearby, and the' next morning our remuda was missing, all except our night horses. I told Wild Horse Jerry to hold down the camp and watch the snares, and I hit the trail of those


peloncias which headed for the Rio Grande. I followed it for about forty miles and then lost all signs. It was nightfall, so I made camp, prepared supper and rolled up in my blanket and went to sleep. I don't know how long I slept, but I was awakened by a low voice saying : "Dejarle desconsar bien por que en un rato el va a comenzar su viaje por el otro mundro." (Let him rest well, as he will soon start on his journey to the other world.) It was the two Mexican horse thieves huddled around my campfire smoking their cigarettes and taking it easy, as they thought they had the drop on me. As T came out of my bed two bullets whizzed near my head, but about that time my old Colt's forty-five began talking, and the janitor down in Hades had two more peloncias on his hands. Ever since that night, if I am awakened suddenly I generally come out on my all fours roaring like a buffalo bull. I never sleep on a bedstead, for it would not be safe for me, as I might break my darn neck, so I always spread down on the floor."

It was a long ride through the Territory, and we spent the balance of the day singing songs and making merry. I kept thinking about my trunk, and felt grateful that the railroad people had sent along a messenger to look out for it. At Denison we met up with some emigrant families going to Uvalde, and soon became acquainted with some fine girls in the party. They entertained us all the way down to Taylor, where we changed cars. As we told them good-bye one asked me to write a line in her autograph album. Now I was sure enough "up a tree." I had been in some pretty tight places, and had had to solve some pretty hard problems, but this was a new one for me. You see, the American people go crazy over some new fad about once a year, and in 1882 it was the autograph fad. I begged the young lady to excuse me, but she insisted, so I took the album and began writing down all the road brands that I was familiar with. But she told me to write a verse of some kind.


I happened to think of a recitation I had learned at school when I was a little boy, so I wrote as follows : "It's tiresome work says lazy Ned, to climb the hill in my new sled, and beat the other boys. Signed, Your Bulliest Friend, JACK POTTER."

We then boarded the I. & G. N. for San Antonio, and at "Austin a lively bunch joined us, including Hal Gosling, United States Marshal, Captain Joe Sheeley and Sheriff Quigley of Castroville. Pretty soon the porter called out "San "Antonio, Santonnie-o," and that was music to my ears. My first move on getting off the train was to look for my trunk and found it had arrived. I said to myself, "Jack Potter, you're a lucky dog. Ticket held out all right, toe nails all healed up, and trunk came through in good shape." After registering at the Central Hotel, I wrote to that general ticket agent at Denver as follows :
San Antonio, Texas, Oct. 5th, 1882.
Gen. Ticket "Agt. A. T. & S. F.,
1415 Lamar St., Denver, Colo.:

DEAR SIR —I landed in San Antonio this afternoon all 0. K. My trunk also came through without a scratch. I want to thank you very much for the man you sent along to look after my trunk. He was very accommodating, and would not allow me to assist him in loading it on at Denver. No doubt he will want to see some of the sights of San Antonio, for it is a great place, and noted for its chili con carne. When he takes a fill of this food, as every visitor does, you can expect him back in Denver on very short notice, as he will be seeking a cooler climate. Did you ever eat any chili con carne? I will send you a dozen cans soon, but tell your wife to keep it in the refrigerator as it might set the house on fire. Thank you again for past favors.
Your Bulliest Friend,


EDITOR 's NOTE.—The foregoing will be read with much interest by the old cowboys who worked the range and traveled the trail with Jack Potter. Mr. Potter is now a prosperous stockman, owning large ranch interests in Oklahoma and New Mexico. He is the son of Rev. Jack Potter, the "Fighting Parson," who was known to all the early settlers of West Texas. The above article is characteristic of the humor and wit of this rip-roaring, hell-raising cow-puncher, who, George Saunders says, and other friends concur in the assertion, was considered to be the most cheerful liar on the face of the earth. But he was always the life of the outfit in camp or on the trail.)


By Samuel Dunn Houston, San Antonio, Texas

My first trip was from Southern Texas, in the spring of 1876. Mac Stewart was foreman. The cattle belonged to Ellison & Dewees. In the


spring of 1877 and 1878 I was on the trail with Bill Green with the Ellison & Dewees cattle. In the spring of 1879 I was on the trail with Len Pierce, but when we crossed the Cimarron, the boys all went to the Longhorn Roundup and got too much whiskey, went to camp, made a rough house and fired Mr. Pierce. He went to Dodge City and we put John Saunders of Lockhart in charge of the herd. Pierce was no good. In the spring, 1880, I was on the trail with Henry Miller, with the Head & Bishop cattle. In the spring, 1881, I was on the trail with Monroe Hardeman, Head & Bishop cattle. In 1882 I went with George Wilcox, Head & Bishop cattle. In 1883 I worked for Captain B. L. Crouch in Frio County. In 1884 I went on the trail with two


herds for Captain Crouch, spring herd and fall herd. In the fall, 1884, I was ordered to Seven Rivers, New Mexico, by Captain Crouch to help deliver the Joe Crouch cattle which the Captain had sold to the Holt Live Stock Company, after Joe Crouch had died.

I was on the range during the year 1885. In the spring, 1886, I went to work for the Holt Live Stock Company and was promoted trail foreman and drove my first herd for that company in the spring of 1886, and was trail boss for the company until 1893. I would take off the spring herd and drive from one to two feeder herds to the Corn Belt country down on the Cimarron. That year I was on the trail almost the year around. One winter I didn't get back from the third trip until the last of January. I expect I have made more trips over the cow trail from Southern Texas and New Mexico than any man in the country.

In the fall of 1893 I came back to my old home to die, but I am still living and able to do a man's work every day. I live in San Antonio with my good wife and three nice daughters, and keep my gun at the head of my bed to keep the young, up-to-date cowboys away.

Now I am going to write a sketch of a trip I made while I was with the Holt Live Stock Company of New Mexico, in the spring, 1888.

I was hiring men for the spring drive and they were not very plentiful in that country, but as luck was on my side, I heard that there were four men at Seven Rivers who had come up from Texas and wanted work. I got in my chuck wagon, went to Seven Rivers and found what I was looking for, so that completed my outfit.

In a few days I went up the Pecos to the spring round-up and took charge of the steer herd of twenty-five hundred three's and up. George Wilcox, the ranch boss, counted them out to me and said, "Sam, they are yours."


I lined up my men, drifted over toward Roswell, and did fine the first night. We passed around town the next morning, and camped that night on Salt Creek. I picked the wrong place to bed the herd, so about nine pin they broke, and we didn't get them stopped until four o'clock in the morning. I told the boys we had lost half of the herd. Just as soon as daylight came I had everything in the saddle to move the herd off the bed ground. I counted them and I was out six hundred and thirty-five head of steers. I left four men with the herd and cut for sign. I found where they had struck the Pecos River and went down that stream. We struck a gallop and found the entire bunch, six miles down the river. They showed they had been in a stampede for they were as green as the grass itself.

When I got back to camp I found the cause of the stampede. I had failed to go over the bed ground the evening before and I found I had bedded the herd on high ground and on the worst gopher holes I could have found in that country. I was out only four or five head and they were close to the range.

I had a boy with me by the name of Gus Votaw. He was about twenty years old, and was the son of Billie Votaw, who all the old-timers knew in San Antonio. Gus made a good hand.

That day while drifting along up the Pecos River I went ahead to hunt a watering place and when I rode up on a gyp hill overlooking the herd I saw six or seven men in a bunch. I went down to the herd to know the cause and hand out a few orders. When I got to them I found the four men I had secured at Seven Rivers were gunmen and had been playing pranks on Gus Votaw. I told them they would have to cut that out and they didn't say yes or no, so I kept my eyes open from there on. In a few days I caught one of them at the same thing and I read the law to him and when I got them all in camp I told them that I was going to run the outfit and such


things as that must be cut out right now. I also told Gus that if they worried him any more to let me know.

I will leave off now from here to Fort Sumner, New Mexico, which was less than a month.

I arrived at Fort Sumner in less than a month and had to stop and write some letters, so I told the cook and horse rustler to take the wagon and camp it up the river and for the cook to have dinner early, for I would be there about ten o'clock.

I finished my job at the postoffice, mounted my horse and pulled out for camp. When I got up within two hundred yards of camp I looked up and saw what I thought, every man in camp and only one man with the herd. When I rode up every man had a gun in his hand but Gus Votaw. I got off my horse and, of course, knew the cause. The cook said, "Boss, there is going to be hell here. I am glad you came."

I went to the front of the wagon, got my gun off of the water barrel and told the men that I would. play my trump card, that I had to have every gun in camp. I didn't expect to live to get the last one, but I did. I got six of them, knocked the loads out, threw them in the wagon, got out my time and check books and gave the four men their time. I told the cook and horse rustler to hitch up the mules and we would move camp. I left the four bad men sitting on their saddles under a cottonwood tree and felt that I had done the right thing. I went up the river about two miles and camped.

"After all this occurred, right here my troubles began. I had to leave the Pecos River and drive across the Staked Plains, ninety miles without water. The next water was the Canadian River. Being short handed, I had to put my horses in the herd, put the horse rustler with the herd and made a hand myself. I held the herd over that day and rested, raised the men's wages five dollars, and made my plans. The next day we had dinner


early, filled my water barrel and left the old Pecos at eleven o'clock for a long, dry drive.

That evening at sundown we reached the top of the mesa, fifteen miles up hill all the way. We rounded up the herd on the trail, got a bite to eat, changed horses and drove until daybreak, bedded on the trail again and had lunch. The cattle were getting very dry and men were worn out. We kept this up until we reached the Canadian River, which was fifty-two hours from the time we left the Pecos River. I didn't lose a steer.

I could not let the herd string out in making the trip. If I had we would have lost cattle. I kept them in a bunch and when I reached the Canadian River I laid over three days to let the men, horses and cattle rest. I would run off the range cattle in the evening and turn everything loose at night except one horse for each man.

It was only a few miles to Clayton, New Mexico, a small railroad town ahead, so I struck camp, left the boys with the herd and I went to town to see if I could get two or three trail men.

When I got there I found there were no men in town, but I met an old friend of mine and he told me that there was a kid of a boy around town that wanted to get with a herd and go up the trail, but he had not seen him for an hour or so. I put out to hunt that kid and found him over at the livery stable. I hired him and took him to camp, and put him with the horses and put my rustler with the cattle. I got along fine for three or four months. The kid would get up the darkest stormy nights and stay with the cattle until the storm was over. He was good natured, very modest, didn't use any cuss words or tobacco, and always pleasant. His name was Willie Matthews, was nineteen years old and weighed one hundred and twenty-five pounds. His home was in Caldwell, Kansas, and I was so pleased with him that I wished many times that I could find two or three more like him.

Everything went fine until I got to Hugo, Colorado,


a little town on the old K. P. Railroad, near the Colorado and Wyoming line. There was good grass and water close to town, so I pulled up about a half a mile that noon and struck camp. After dinner the kid come to where I was sitting and asked me if he could quit. He insisted, said he was homesick, and I had to let him go.

About sundown we were all sitting around camp and the old herd was coming in on the bed ground. I looked up toward town and saw a lady, all dressed up, coming toward camp, walking. I told the boys we were going to have company. I couldn't imagine why a woman would be coming on foot to a cow camp, but she kept right on coming, and when within fifty feet of camp I got up to be ready to receive my guest. Our eyes were all set on her, and every man holding his breath. When she got up within about twenty feet of me, she began to laugh, hand said, "Mr. Mr. Houston, you don't know me, do you ?"

Well, for one minute I couldn't speak. She reached her hand out to me, to shake hands, and I said, "Kid, is it possible that you are a lady " That was one time that I could not think of anything to say, for everything that had been said on the old cow trail in the last three or four days entered my mind at that moment.

In a little while we all crowded around the girl and shook her hand, but we were so dumbfounded we could hardly think of anything to say. I told the cook to get one of the tomato boxes for a chair. The kid sat down and I said, "Now I want you to explain yourself."

"Well," she said, "I will tell you all about it, Mr. Houston. My papa is an old-time trail driver from Southern Texas. He drove from Texas to Caldwell, Kansas, in the '70's. He liked the country around Caldwell very much, so the last trip he made he went to work on a ranch up there and never returned to Texas any more. In two or three years he and my mother were married. After I was ten or twelve years old, I used to hear papa talk so much about the old cow trail and I


made up my mind that when I was grown I was going up the trail if I had to run off. I had a pony of my own and read in the paper of the big herds passing Clayton, New Mexico, so I said, now is my chance to get on the trail. Not being far over to Clayton, I saddled my pony and told brother I was going out in the country, and I might be gone for a week, but for him to tell papa not to worry about me, I would be back. I had on a suit of brother's clothes and a pair of his boots. In three or four days I was in Clayton looking for a job and I found one. Now, Mr. Houston, I am glad I found you to make the trip with, for I have enjoyed it. I am going just as straight home as I can and that old train can't run too fast for me, when I get on it."

The train left Hugo at 11:20 o'clock in the evening. I left one man with the herd and took the kid and every man to town to see the little girl off. I suppose she was the only girl that ever made such a trip as that. She was a perfect lady.

After I got through and returned to the ranch on the Pecos River, I had many letters from the little girl and her father also, thanking me for the kindness toward Willie and begging me to visit them.

The trip I made that year was for the Holt Live Stock Company of Denver, Colorado. They also had large ranches in New Mexico.

The next morning I went to Hugo and secured three more men and hit the trail for Pole Creek, Wyoming, about fifty miles from the Montana and Wyoming line, where I turned over the big herd to the Russell Brothers Ranch, and that was the end of this drive.



By Samuel Dunn Houston, 2206 South Presa Street,
San Antonio, Texas

In 1879 I went through Southern Texas with a big herd of cattle to the Northern market, Ogallala, Nebraska. This herd belonged to Head & Bishop.

We reached Ogallala "August 10th, 1879, and there we met R. G. Head, who gave the boss, John Sanders, orders to cross the South Platte the next morning and proceed to the North Platte. He said he would see us over there and would tell us where to take the herd.

On "August 11th we crossed the South Platte and went over on North River about ten miles and camped. Dick Head came over to camp for dinner and told our boss to take the herd up to Tusler's Ranch on Pumpkin Creek and Mr. Tusler would be there to receive the cattle. He said it was about one hundred miles up the Platte. "After dinner we strung the herd out and drove them up there. We rushed them up because we were anxious to get back to Ogallala to see all of our old cowboy friends get in from the long drive from Texas.

We reached the Tusler Ranch on "August 19th and on the 20th we counted the old herd over to the ranch boss and started back to Ogallala, making the return trip in four days.

The next morning as we were going through town, I met an old trail boss, and he wanted me to go with him to Red Cloud Agency, Dakota, with four thousand big Texas steers that belonged to D. R. Fant. They were Indian contracted cattle, so I told the boss I was ready to make the trip. Tom Moore was the foreman's name and he was a man that knew how to handle a big herd.

I went to camp with Tom that night and he got all the outfit together and on August 28th we took charge


of the big herd. They were one of the old King herds which had come in by way of Dodge City, Kansas, from the old coast country down in Southern Texas.

They wanted to walk, so we strung them out and headed for the old South Platte. When the lead cattle got to the bank of the river the boss said, "Now, Sam, don't let them turn back on you, and we won't have any trouble." We landed on the other side all O. K. and went through the valley and on through the town. Everybody in town was out to see the big King herd go through. I threw my hat back on my head and I felt as though the whole herd belonged to me.

When the lead cattle struck the foothills I looked back and could see the tail end coming in the river, and I told my partner, the right-hand pointer, that we were headed for the North Pole. We raised our hats and bid Ogallala good-bye. When the lead cattle got to North River it was an hour and ten minutes before the tail end got to the top of the hills. My partner and I threw the range cattle out of the flats and we had it easy until the chuck wagon came over and struck camp for noon, then four of us boys went to camp.

We had a highball train from there on.

We didn't cross the North Platte until we got to Fort Laramie, Wyoming. The snow was melting in the mountains and the river was muddy and no bottom to the quicksand. I was looking every night for a stampede, but we were lucky. The night we camped close to the Court House Rock, they made a jump off the bed ground, but that didn't count. I think they got wind of the old negro cook. This herd had come from the old King Ranch, away down in Texas with a Mexican cook. I told the boss that the next morning and he said he was almost sure that was the cause.

The North Platte River in places is more than a mile wide and it seemed to me when we reached the place we were to cross, it was two miles wide. The range cattle


on the other side looked like little calves standing along the bank.

When we reached Fort Laramie we made ready to cross. I pulled my saddle off and then my clothes. Tom came up and said, "Sam, you are doing the right thing." I told him I had crossed that river before and that I had a good old friend who once started to cross that river and he was lost in the quicksand. His name was Theodore Luce of Lockhart, Texas. He was lost just above the old Seven Crook Ranch above Ogallala. Tom told all the boys to pull off their saddles before going across. When everything was ready we strung the herd back on the hill and headed for the crossing. Men and steers were up and under all the way across.

We landed over all safe and sound, got the sand out of our hair, counted the boys to see if they were all there and pulled out to the foothills to strike camp. About ten o'clock that night the first guards came in to wake my partner and I to stand second guard. I got up, pulled on my boots, untied my horse and then the herd broke. The two first guards had to ride until Tom and the other men got there. Three of us caught the leaders and threw them back to the tail end, then run them in a mill, until they broke again. We kept that up until three o'clock in the morning, when we got them quieted.

We held them there until daylight, then strung them towards the wagon and counted them. We were out fifty-five head, but we had the missing ones back by eight o'clock. We were two miles from the grub wagon when the run was over. The first guards said that a big black wolf got up too close to the herd and that was the cause of the trouble.

Our next water was the Nebraska River, which was thirty miles arcoss the Laramie Plains. We passed over that in fine shape. From there our next water was White River. The drive through that country was bad, because


the trail was so crooked and such deep canyons. We reached White River, crossed over and camped. About the time we turned the mules loose, up rode about thirty bucks and squaws, all ready for supper. They stood around till supper was ready and the old negro cook began to get crazy and they couldn't stay any longer. They got on their horses and left.

An Indian won't stay where there is a crazy person. They say he is the devil.

The next morning the horse rustler was short ten head of horses. He hunted them until time to move camp and never found them, so Tom told me that I could stay there and look them up, and he would take the herd eight or ten miles up the trail and wait for me. I roped out my best horse, got my Winchester and six-shooter and started out looking for the horses. I rode that country out and out, but could not find them, so I just decided the Indians drove them off during the night to get a reward or a beef. I thought I would go down to the mouth of White River, on the Missouri River in the bottom where the Indians were camped. When I got down in the bottom I saw horse signs, so I was sure from the tracks they were our horses. I rode and rode until I found them. There was no one around them, so I started back with the bunch.

When I had covered three or four miles, I looked back and saw a big dust on the hill out of White River. Then I rode for my life, because I knew it was a bunch of Indians and they were after me. I could see the herd ahead of me, and never let up. I beat them to camp about a half mile.

When they rode up and pointed to the horses, one Indian said, "Them my horses. This man steal 'ern! Him no good!" We had an old squaw humper along with us, and he got them down to a talk and Tom told them he would give them a beef. Tom went with them out to the herd and cut out a big beef and they ran it off


a short distance and killed it, cut it up, packed it on their ponies and went back toward White River. If those Indians had overtaken me I am sure my bones would be bleaching in that country today. The Indians were almost on the warpath at that time and we were lucky in that we did not have any more trouble with them.

A week longer put us at the Agency. Tom went ahead of the herd and reported to the agent. We camped about four miles this side that night and the next morning we strung the old herd off the bed ground and went in to the pens at Red Cloud "Agency, Dakota. There I saw more Indians than I ever expected to see. The agent said there were about ten thousand on the ground.

It took us all day to weigh the herd out, ten steers on the scales at one time. We weighed them and let them out one side and the agent would call the Indians by name and each family would fall in behind his beef and off to the flats they would go.

After we got the herd all weighed out the agent told us to camp there close and he would show us around. He said the Indians were going to kill a fat dog that night and after they had feasted they would lay the carcass on the ground and have a war dance.

"All the boys wanted to stay and see them dance. "A few of the bucks rode through the crowd several times with their paint on. In a little while a buck came up with a table on his head and set it down in the crowd and then came another with big butcher knives in his hand and a third came with a big fat dog on his shoulder, all cleaned like a hog. He placed it on the table, then every Indian on the ground made some kind of a pow-wow that could be heard for miles, after which the old chief made a speech and the feast began. Every Indian on the ground had a bite of that dog. They wanted us to go up and have some, but we were not hungry, so we stood back and looked on. "Heap good," said the chief, "heap fat." About ten o'clock they had finished eating and two


squaws took the carcass off the table and put it on the ground and the dance began. Every Indian was painted in some bright color. That was a wonderful dance.

The next morning we started back over our old trail to Ogallala. It was about October 16th and some cooler and all of the boys were delighted to head south.

Seven days' drive with the outfit brought us back to the Niobrara River and we struck. camp at the Dillon Ranch.

The Dillon Ranch worked a number of half-breed In- dians. I was talking with one about going back to Ogal- lala, as I was very anxious to get on the trail road and go down in Texas to see my best girl.

He told me he could tell me a route that could cut off two or three hundred miles going to Ogallala. So I wrote it all down. He told me to go over the old Indian trail across the Laramie Plains, saying his father had often told him how to go and the trail was wide and plain and it was only one hundred and seventy-five or two hundred miles. Right there I made up my mind that I would go that way and all alone. There were only two watering places and they were about forty miles apart. The first lake was sixty-five or seventy miles.

I had the best horse that ever crossed the Platte River and if I could cut off that much I would be in Texas by the time the outfit reached Ogallala.

I asked Tom to pay me off, saying that I was going back to Texas over the old Indian trail across the Lar- amie Plains. I knew if an Indian crossed that country I could also.

He said, "You are an old fool. You can't make that trip, not knowing where the fresh water is, you will starve to death." I told him that I could risk it anyway, and I knew I could make it.

Next morning I was in my saddle by daylight, bade the boys good-bye and told them if they heard of a dead man or horse on the old Indian trail, across the plains,


for some of them the next year to come and pick me up, but I was sure I could make the trip across.

The first day's ride I was sure I had covered sixty- five or seventy miles. I was getting very thirsty that evening, so I began to look on both sides of the trail for the fresh water lake, but was disappointed. I was not worried. Just as the sun went down I went into a deep basin just off the trail where there was a very large alkali lake.

I had a pair of blankets, my slicker and saddle blankets, so I made my bed down and went to bed. I was tired and old Red Bird (my horse) was also jaded. I lay awake for some time thinking and wondering if I was on the wrong trail. The next morning I got up, after a good rest, ate the rest of my lunch, and pulled down the trail looking on both sides of the trail for the fresh water lake, but failed to find it. I then decided that the half-breed either lied or had put me "up a tree." Anyway, I would not turn back. I had plenty of money, but that was no good out there. I could see big alkali lakes everywhere, but I knew there would be a dead cowboy out there if I should take a drink of that kind of water.

I rode until noon, but found nothing. The country was full of deer, antelope, elk and lobo wolves, but they were too far off to take a shot at. When I struck camp for noon I took the saddle off my horse and lay down for a rest. Got up about one-thirty and hit the trail.

That was my second days' ride and my tongue was very badly swelled. I could not spit any more, so I be- gan to use my brain and a little judgment and look out for "old Sam" and that horse.

About the middle of the afternoon I looked off to my left and saw a large lobo wolf about one hundred yards away and he seemed to be going my route. I would look in his direction quite often. He was going my gait and seemed to have me spotted. I took a shot at him every little while, but I kept on going and so did


he. I rode on until sundown and looked out for my wolf, but did not see him. The trail turned to the right And went down into a deep alkali basin. I rode down into it and decided that I would pull into camp for the night, as I was very much worn out. I went down to the edge of the lake, pulled off my saddle and made my bed down on my stake rope so I would not lose my horse. The moon was just coming up over the hill.

I threw a load in my gun and placed it by my side, with my head on my saddle, and dropped off to sleep. About nine o'clock the old wolf's howls woke me up. I looked up and saw him sitting about twenty feet from my head just between me and the moon. I turned over right easy, slipped my gun over the cantle of my saddle and let him have one ball. He never kicked. I grabbed my rope, went to him, cut him open and used my hands for a cup and drank his old blood. It helped me in a way, but did not satisfy as water would. I went down to the lake and washed up, went back to bed and thought I would get a good sleep and rest that night, but found later I had no rest coming.

I was nearly asleep when something awakened me. I raised up and grabbed my gun, and saw that it was a herd of elk, so I took a shot or two at them. As soon as I shot they stampeded and ran off, but kept coming back. About twelve o'clock I got up, put my saddle on my horse and rode until daylight. I was so tired, I thought I would lay down and sleep awhile. Riding that night I must have passed the second water lake. After sleeping a little while I got up and broke camp and rode until twelve o'clock, when I stopped for noon that day. That being my third day out, I thought I would walk around, and the first thing I saw was an old dead horse's bones. I wondered what a dead horse's bones were doing away out there, so I began to look around some more and what should I see but the bones of a man. I was sure then that some man had undertaken to cross the


plains and had perished, so I told old Red Bird (my horse) that we had better go down the trail and we pulled out.

That evening about four o'clock, as I was walking and leading my horse, I saw a very high sand hill right on the edge of the old trail. I walked on to the top of the sand hill and there I could see cottonwood trees just ahead of me. I sat down under my horse about a half an hour. I could see cattle everywhere in the valley, and I saw a bunch of horses about a mile from me. I looked down toward the trees about four miles and saw a man headed for the bunch of horses. I didn't know whether he was an Indian or not. He was in a gallop and as he came nearer to the horses I pulled my gun and shot one time. He stopped a bit and started off again. Then I made two shots and he stopped again a few minutes. By that time he had begun to round up the horses, so I shot three times. He quit his horses and came to me in a run. When he got up within thirty of forty feet of me he spoke to me and called me by my name and said, "Sam you are the biggest fool I ever saw." I couldn't say a word for my mouth was so full of tongue, but I knew him. He shook hands and told me to get up behind him and we would go to camp. He took his rope and tied it around my waist to keep me from falling off, for I was very weak. Then he struck a gallop and we were at camp in a very few minutes. He tied his horse and said, "Now, Sam, we will go down to the spring and get a drink of water."

Just under the hill about twenty steps was the finest sight I ever saw in my life. He took down his old tin cup and said, "Now, Sam, I am going to be the doctor." I was trying all the time to get in the spring, but was so weak he could hold me back with one hand. He would dip up just a teaspoonful of the water in the cup and say, "Throw your head back," and he poured it on my tongue. After a while he increased it until I got my fill


and my tongue went down. When I got enough water then I was hungry. I could have eaten a piece of that fat dog if I'd had it.

My friend's name was Jack Woods, an old cowboy that worked on the Bosler ranch. Jack and I had been up the trail from Ogallala to the Dakotas many times before that.

Jack said, "Now, Sam, we will go up to the house and get something to eat. I killed a fat heifer calf yesterday and have plenty of bread cooked, so you come in and lay down and I will start a fire quickly and cook some steak and we will eat some supper." Before he could get it cooked, I could stand it no longer, so I slipped out, went around behind the house where he had the calf hanging, took out my pocket knife and went to work eating the raw meat, trying to satisfy my appetite. After fifteen or twenty minutes Jack came around hunting me and said, "Sam, I always thought you were crazy, now I know it. Come on to supper." I went in the house and ate a hearty supper.

After finishing supper, I never was so sleepy in my life. Jack said, "Sam, lay down on my bed and go to sleep and I will go out and get your horse and treat him to water and oats." He got on his horse and struck a gallop for the sand hills, where my poor old horse was standing starving to death.

Next morning Jack told me that a man by the name of Lumm once undertook to cross those plains from the Niobrara River to the head of the Little Blue over that same Indian trail. Jack said, "He and his horse's bones are laying out on the plains now. Perhaps you saw them as you came along." I told him I saw the bones of a man and the horse, but didn't remember how far back it was. It seemed about 25 miles.

I remained there five days and every morning while I was there, Jack and I would get on our horses and go out in the valley and round up the horses he was taking


care of, rope out the worst outlaw horse he had in the bunch and take the kink out of his back. The five days I was there I rode four and five horses every day.

On October 29th I saddled my horse. and told Jack I was going to Texas. He gave me a little lunch, and I bid him good-bye and headed for the North Platte.

I reached Bosler's Ranch at 12 :20 o'clock, had dinner, gave the boss a note from Jack Woods, fed my horse, rested one hour, saddled up, bade the boys good-bye and headed for Ogallala on the South Platte, forty miles below.

I reached Ogallala that night at 9:30 o'clock, put my horse in the livery stable, went up to the Leach Hotel and there I met Mr. Dillon, the owner of the Niobrara Ranch, sold my horse to him for $80, purchased a new suit, got a shave and haircut, bought my ticket to Texas, and left that night at 11:30 o'clock for Kansas City.

On November 6th I landed in "Austin, Texas, thirty miles from my home, and took the stage the next morning for Lockhart. That was where my best girl lived, and when I got there I was happy.

This was the end of a perfect trip from Nebraska on the South Platte to Red Cloud "Agency, North Dakota.


From "Fruits and Flowers," by Z. N. Morrell

At the end of the conference year, 1847, the Rev. Mr. Brown, assisted by the Presiding Elder, Rev. Mr. Custer, held a camp meeting at Warren, in Grayson County. Rev. Mr. Duncan, a missionary from the Indian Territory, also assisted in the meeting. A camp meeting in those days was a most important event, and anticipated with intense interest by the settlers far and near. Different motives actuated people to attend camp meetings, and the same rule will apply to all such occasions of later date. Some go out of courtesy, to see and be seen, others regard it as a season of rest and diversion,


while many embrace the occasion to gossip, exchange news, see the latest fashions, and make new acquaintances. A few, a chosen few, anticipate the event in God's natural temples, the leafy groves ; they feel the "out- pourings of the spirit," or experience the magical change of heart, granted through the efficacy of prayer to those who earnestly seek the Divine blessing. But we will go as spectators, mere lookers-on, and take a bird's-eye view of this panorama in the midst of nature. We first see a large shed covered with brush and limbs of trees; this is to shelter the large audience ; while heavy boards or logs are to serve as seats. "Another slab upheld by stakes driven in the ground and covered by a bearskin is the pulpit ; a number of chairs, some split bottom and some covered with rawhide, the hair left on, are for the stewards and ministers expected to be present. The "mourner's bench" has not been forgotten, nor has the straw which is scattered around with a liberal hand. Little brush shanties have been erected all around in convenient places for the camps, and soon the occupants began to arrive. They came "afoot and horseback," riding single or double. On carts and wagons are loaded bedding, cooking utensils and children. Dogs have not been invited, but they come anyway, and make themselves too familiar for comfort, and are all sizes and breeds, from the long-eared deerhound to the common cur. The camp ground begins to assume the appearance of a picnic on a large scale ; horses neigh as the newcomers arrive, babies cry, children shout and play and a hum of good-natured conversation, inquiries and greetings all combine to make a vivid and realistic picture in its setting of living green. I said something about fashions, but it was a far-fetched allusion. I wonder if our forefathers and mothers in their coonskin caps and slat sunbonnets worried about the "latest styles" or in their primitive simplicity ever imagined that succeeding generations would lose sight of their humble origin, forget


what the foundation of American aristocracy really is, and run to vanity, selfishness, patent spring bottom pants, "rats" and false hair?

It is now approaching the time when the meetings are to commence and to blast or toot the horn which brings the scattered congregation together. Those men who from long habit, carry their rifles with them, lean them against a tree and divest themselves of shot pouch and powder horn. A dog fight or two is settled and the yelping curs sent off to crouch under the wagons ; then all gather in and seat themselves on the rough boards. A few youngsters who are habitually thirsty at meeting take a last long drink out of the bucket near the pulpit, put the gourd dipper down rather noisily, then make their way to their mothers, who unceremoniously yank them into a seat and bid them all sit there and be quiet. "At last all is still and solemn. Brother Brown raises up his tall form threatening to bring the top of his head and the brush above in violent collision. He casts a searching glance over his audience and finally all are attentive as the occasion requires and he commences in a sonorous voice to line out the hymn :

"Children of the Heavenly King,
As we journey sweetly sing,"—

Here we leave them, confident that Brother Brown, in his fervid zeal, will faithfully warn his interested hearers to flee from the wrath to come.

Thus was the foundation of Methodism in Grayson and adjoining counties. Brother Brown was succeeded by Jefferson Shook and he by "Andrew Davis and others, all earnest workers in the cause. The Baptist faith was ably upheld by two brothers by the name of Hiram and James Savage. One lived on Caney Creek and the other on Bois d'Arc, as farmers. They tilled the soil during the week, preaching on Sundays, accomplishing great good on the frontier of Grayson.


The Fourth of July, 1847, was the occasion of a grand barbecue and barn dance at Sherman, and to a great many who attended the festivities this was their first view of the new county seat. A log house about 20 feet square, used for a court house, and a few rods of plowed ground comprised the metropolis from one end to the other. I will leave my readers to picture the contrast of the city then and now. For the barbecue a large brush shed was built, under which were tables loaded with all the delicacies of the season, welcome to all, to eat, drink and be merry without money and without price. The refreshment stand, a rail fence partly built around a barrel of whiskey stood near at hand, while a tin cup did frequent duty for a thirsty crowd. The court house was thrown open to accommodate dancers. Justice took off her spectacles, laid aside her scales, and for once in her life gave herself up to the intoxicating pleasures of the hoedown. Music was furnished by a stalwart darkey perched on a barrel ; when he gave out another stood ready to take his place until he could visit the refreshment stand and counteract the effect of the heat and his violent exertions by looking for the bottom of his tin cup.

When we stop and think of the advancement made in every direction since this period of Texas' early settlement, the time seems longer than it really is. When we remember that those pioneers had no newspapers, magazines, or any kind of communication with the outside world, save as came by word of mouth; no telegraph, telephone or railroads, that churches and schools barely struggled into existence after long years of patient waiting, it makes one imagine a pre-Adamite sort of existence and not of a time of sixty years ago. Think of having no thread except that manufactured at home ; no matches, a flint their only dependence and a stump in the field set fire to by its spark was their reserve when the fire at the house would accidentally go out; the neighbors literally coming to borrow a shovel of coals.


The faithful historian of the Lone Star State cannot ignore, if he is a loyal chronicler, the honor due early settlers for services rendered as advance guards to the great time of immigration that peopled a prosperous land. It has not been in my power to mention but a very few of the pioneers of Grayson County, but however small the number, they help swell the grand total, and I bespeak their recognition in the annals of the State. The pioneers of a country are deserving a niche in the country's history, and the pioneers who became martyrs to the development of an almost unknown land deserve to have a place in the hearts of its inhabitants. None but the brave and venturesome, energetic and courageous dare penetrate the pathless wilderness and trackless forests, and Texas, with her cultivated fields, untold wealth and beautiful homes, may well enshrine the memory of her noble-hearted pioneer pathfinders, martyrs.


By J. F. Ellison, Jr., Fort Cobb, Okla.


My first trip up the trail was in the year 1869, over the old Fort Arbuckle Trail. I made seven trips In all. In 1876 I worked for Ellison, Dewees, Willett and Maberry, and was on the trail for six months. These men drove out that year fully one hundred thousand cattle. We had our hardships, boys, but when we look back and reflect over those good old times spent in each other's company, and compare those old days to the present time, we


conclude that we had our share of the good things of life and played well our part in the development and transformation of a wild country into one of peace, plenty and prosperity. There are hundreds of the old boys yet living that we knew in the trail days, and to all of them I send greetings and good wishes.


Recited by Luther "A. Lawhon at the conclusion of his address, when as representative of Mayor Bell, he welcomed to San Antonio the members of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, who had assembled for their annual reunion, September 9th and 10th, 1919:

You recollect, though white your hair,
When you came up to see the sights,
And pike a little here and there,
"And wager on the badger fights?

Around the plazas, then alive,
"And found an ample feedin' trough;
You smoked 'em with your forty-five,
And stood the stern policeman off.

But joys like these will soonest pale ;
The eagle will not long be bound;
So pretty soon you hit the trail,
That led you to the stampin' ground.

"Back to the ranch— to hell with the towns!"
You shouted with a .savage yell ;
You told the boys your ups and downs,
And some things that you didn't tell.


But, ah, today —alas, the change !
Those good old times have faded out;
'Tis —strange indeed, 'tis passing strange,
How all these things have come .about.

Now "Coke" and Tango run a race,
For the honors in the social cup,
And golf and baseball take the place
Of poker, dice and seven-up.

And when we stroll in friendly way
To read the signs and see the town,
The jitneys mark us for their prey,
And aeroplanes may knock us down.

The city's lit with 'lectric lights
That blaze and blind us as we pass;
No more we note, in rooms at nights,
The warning, "Don't blow out the gas."

But we still have John Blocker here,M
And Ike T. Pryor, good and stout;
And they'll come down— you never fear—
With what we need to help us out.

And we've George Saunders, too, today;
He'll hand us up the welcome ten,
Which we'll remit without delay,
And which he'll never see again.

Sweet are the whispered words of love;
And sweet the poet's honied rhymes;
But sweeter far, where'er we rove,
The memories of those good old times !

Such are the scenes that we recall;
"And still, perchance, for them we mourn;
But have a good time— one and all,
For, fellers, San Antonio's your'n.


—By courtesy of Jos. G. McCoy, the Pioneer Western Cattle
                        Shipper—Published in 1874.



By M. A. Withers of Lockhart, Texas

I was born in Monroe County, Missouri, September 23, 1846. I came to Texas with my parents and settled


in Caldwell County in November, 1852 or 1853, and have lived in the same county ever since.

In 1859, when I was only thirteen years old, I made my first trip on the trail. I went with a herd of cows and calves from Lockhart to Fredericksburg, Tex. The cattle were sold to Tom and Sam Johnson by George Haynes at $3.00 per head.

My next trip, in 1862, was from Lockhart, Texas, to M. A. WITHERS Shreveport, La., with a herd of steers for the Confederate States government. George Haynes was the contractor and S. H. Whitaker was the boss. "After arriving at Shreveport a herd of steers, too poor for Confederate soldiers to eat, was delivered to us to be driven to the Brazos River and turned loose on the range. I rode one horse on this entire trip. I was to get two dollars per day and board. I got the board, consisting of cornbread, bacon, and sometimes coffee, but I never got the two dollars per day promised me. On my return to Lockhart I joined the Confederate Cavalry and served to the end of the war in Company I, 36th Texas Cavalry.

I left Lockhart, Texas, April 1, 1868, with a herd of 600 big wild steers. The most of them belonged to my father, brothers and myself. I bought some of them at


$10.00 per head to be paid for when I returned from the drive. I had eight hands and a cook, all of whom are dead except myself. We crossed the Colorado River at Austin, the Brazos River at Waco, the Trinity River where Fort Worth now is. Only one or two stores were there then. We crossed the Red River where Denison now is, and the "Arkansas River at Fort Gibson, then traveled up the north side of the "Arkansas River to Wichita, Kansas, which then consisted of a log house used for a store.

Before we reached Wichita I went .several miles ahead of the herd and stopped at a large lake to get a drink of water and water my horse. Suddenly my horse became restless and when I looked up I saw seven Osage Indians coming helter-skelter straight for me. Maybe you think I wasn't scared, but I surely was. I could not run for the lake was on one side and the Indians on the other. I thought my time had come. They ran their horses up to me and stopped. "All had guns, and I thought they were the largest ones I had ever seen. There I was with my back to the lake and with only my horse between me and the Indians, who were looking at me.

After looking at me for a few minutes, the big chief held out his hand and said "How," and then asked for tobacco. I did not give my hand, but I gave him all the tobacco I had. It was a great relief to me when I saw them whirl their horses and leave in as big a hurry as they came.

A few days later we killed and barbecued a beef. Early the next morning one of the boys, who was with the herd, came running into camp and shouting, "Indians! Indians!" We looked up and saw about thirty Osage Indians coming as fast as their horses could run straight for our camp. Each Indian gave the customary greeting, "How," and all placed their guns around a tree. They made short work of our barbecued meat, and then began to pick up the things scattered about the wagon.


They asked us to give them a beef and we gladly gave them a "stray." They butchered it and immediately began to eat it. While they were thus engaged we moved the herd away as quickly as possible.

We continued our journey to Abilene, Kansas, reaching there about July 1, 1868. Between Wichita and Abilene we found the skull of a man with a bullet hole in the forehead. Whose skull it was we never knew. After reaching Abilene we established our summer camp on the Chatman Creek, twelve miles north of Abilene, Kansas. We discharged four hands and kept the others to rangeherd the cattle until fall, when I sold the steers to W. K. McCoy & Bros. of Champagne, Illinois, for $28.00 per head. The cattle were worth from $8.00 to $10.00 per head in Texas and the expenses were about $4.00 per head. The steers were not road-branded and we reached there with a full count. I received $1,000 in cash and the remainder in drafts on Donald Lawson & Co., of New York City, signed by W. K. McCoy & Bros. One of these drafts for a small amount was never paid and I still have it in my safe. I would like to collect it now with compound interest.

On our trip from Lockhart, Texas, to Abilene, Kansas, we found plenty of grass and water. The cattle arrived in Abilene in fine condition and were rolling fat when sold.

"After selling out we bought new wagons and harness and made work horses out of our cow ponies. We sent the boys through Arkansas and loaded the wagons with red apples. "After reaching Texas they placed an apple on a twig on the front end of the wagon and began to peddle them. They received a fine price for those that they did not eat or give away to the girls along the road.

I went from Abilene, Kansas, to St. Louis, Mo., and took the last steamer down the Mississippi River which would reach New Orleans before Christmas. It took


eleven days to make the trip, for the boat stopped at every landing and added chickens, turkeys, ducks, etc., to her cargo. There was a dance on deck each night except Sunday night. I came from New Orleans to Galveston, Texas, by steamer; from Galveston to Columbus by train, and from Columbus to Lockhart by stage, and arrived at home on Christmas day, 1868.

In the summer of 1868 I was chosen to go with Joe G. McCoy and a party to Fossil Creek Siding on the Kansas Pacific Railway for the purpose of roping buffalo bulls to be sent East as an advertisement. It had been found that by advertising a large semi-monthly public sale of stock cattle to take place at the shipping yards at Abilene, Kansas, a ready market had been found for the stock cattle. Buyers were also needed for grown cattle. The plan adopted to call attention to the fact was to send East a carload of wild buffaloes, covering the side of the car with advertisements of the cattle. But how to get the buffaloes was the next point to be considered.

The slats of an ordinary stock car were greatly strengthened by bolting thick planks parallel with the floor and about three feet above it to the side of the car. One-half dozen horses, well trained to the lasso, were placed in one car and in the other were six men with supplies. Both cars departed for the buffalo region. In the party chosen were four Texas cowboys, Jake Carroll, Tom Johnson, Billy Campbell and myself, also two California Spaniards, all experts with the rope.

On the afternoon of our arrival on the buffalo range we started out to capture our first buffalo. After riding for a short while, we saw a moving object in the distance which we supposed was the desired game. We followed and saw that it was a man after an animal. We thought it was an Indian after a buffalo.

All of us, with the exception of Tom Johnson, who rode away to the right, started in pursuit of the desired game. We soon discovered what we supposed was an


Indian and a buffalo was a white man driving a milch cow to the section house. He ran to the section house and told them that the Indians had chased him and were coming straight to the house. He said that one long-legged Indian riding a white horse tried to spear him. The supposed Indian on the white horse was none other than Tom Johnson, who was about four hundred yards away from the man. When we reached the section house, the men had barricaded themselves in the dugout awaiting the arrival of the Indians.. They supposed we were Indians until we were close enough for them to tell we were white men. They came out and told us what the frightened man had told them.

During our hunt we had to guard our horses at night from the savages. We saw three small parties of Indians, and one bunch gave some of us a little chase over the prairie.

The next morning after our arrival we spied seven buffalo bulls on the north side of the Saline River and preparations were made to capture them. Two of them refused to cross the river, and when I attempted to force one to cross he began to fight and I shot him with my Navy six-shooter. This was the first buffalo I ever killed. The others were started in the direction of the railway and when in several hundred yards of it two of them were captured. The two Spaniards roped one and Billy Campbell and I roped the other one. The buffalo charged first at one and then the other of us. He would drop his head, stiffen his neck, and await for us to come near him, then chase one of his captors until there was no hope of catching him, then turn and go after the other.

When he was near the track a third rope was placed around his hind legs and in a moment he was laying stretched out on the ground. Our well-trained horses watched his movements and kept the ropes tight. After he ceased to struggle his legs were tied together with short pieces of rope, then the lariats were taken off and the


buffalo was lifted into the car by means of a block and tackle. One end was fastened to the buffalo's head and the other to the top of the car on the opposite side. After his head was securely bound to a part of the car frame his feet were untied. Sometimes the buffalo would sulk for hours after being loaded and show no desire to fight.

In about a week we captured twenty-four buffalo bulls. Some of them died from heat and anger caused by capture, others became sullen and laid down before they were gotten near the cars, and only twelve were successfully loaded and started on the road to Chicago.

It was very interesting to see how well trained were the horses. They seemed to know what movements to make to counteract those of the captured animal. It was almost impossible to entangle them in the rope, for they knew by experience the consequences of being entangled.

After hanging upon each side of the cars an advertisement of the cattle near "Abilene, they were sent to Chicago via St. Louis, causing much newspaper comment. Upon reaching Chicago the buffalo were sent to the Fair Grounds, where the two Spaniards, Billie Campbell and I roped them again to show the people how it was done. This advertisement feat was followed by an excursion of Illinois cattlemen to the West. The 'people were taken to the prairie near Abilene and shown the many fine herds of cattle. Several people invested in these cattle, and in a short time the market at Abilene assumed its usual life and activity. The year of 1868 closed with Abilene's success as a cattle market of note. Soon Texas cattle became in great demand for packing purposes.

Later in the fall of the same year, 1868, I went on a hunt with a party about seventy-five miles south of Abilene to the valley between the Big and Little Arkansas Rivers, where we saw countless numbers of buffalo. As far as we could see the level prairies were black with buffaloes. The grass was eaten off as smooth as a floor


behind these thousands of animals. We killed all we wanted in a very short time.

In 1872 on the Smoky River near Hays City, Kansas, while with a herd of cattle we had a big stampede. While running in the lead of the steers I saw by a flash of lightning that I was on the edge of a big bluff of the river. There was nothing left for me to do but jump, so I spurred my horse and landed in the river, which had three or four feet of water in it. Neither my horse nor I was hurt, although some of the steers Were killed and many crippled.

While riding that same horse that fall in Nevada, he fell into a prospector's hole full of snow, and both of us had to be pulled out.

On this same trip between Fort Steele on the North Platte River and Independence Rock on the Sweetwater, we crossed a desert which was seventy miles across. There was no grass or water except some alkali lakes, which were not good for man or beast. On the banks of one of these lakes I found what I thought were pretty rocks. I picked up a few and later showed them to a jeweler, who told me that they were moss agates and that they made fine sets for rings or pins and were very valuable.

Soon after crossing the desert two of our men quit, and as we were far from any human habitation and in an Indian country, I have often wondered what became of them. We found game of all kinds, fine grass and water on this trip. The Indians made two attempts to get our horses, but they did not succeed. I sold this herd of 3,400 two-year-old steers and heifers to Tabor & Rodabush at $20.00 per head, delivered at Humbolt Wells, Nevada. I also sold the horses to them at the same price. Our horses gave out and we walked most of the last five hundred miles. Bart Kelso of Pleasanton, Texas, was with me on this trip.

While following the trail I was in a number of storms.


During a storm in 1882, while I was delivering cattle to Gus Johnson, he was killed by lightning. G. B. Withers, Johnson and I were riding together when the lightning struck. It set Johnson's undershirt on fire and his gold shirt stud, which was set with a diamond was melted and the diamond was never found. His hat was torn to pieces and mine had all the plush burned off of the top. I was not seriously hurt, but G. B. Withers lost one eye by the same stroke that killed Johnson.

I followed the trail from 1868 to 1887. I bought cattle in Texas and New Mexico and drove them to Kansas, Colorado, Nebraska, North and South Dakota, Montana, Oregon, Wyoming, Utah, Idaho and Nevada. My first herd numbered 600 Texas steers. The largest herd I ever drove from Texas was 4,500 steers, which I drove from Fort Griffin, Texas, to Dobie Walls in what was then known as "No Man's Land." These cattle were sold to Gus Johnson.

At different times while driving cattle to Northern markets I had as partners Bill Montgomery, George Hill, Dr. John G. Blanks, Dick Head and Jesse Presnall. Some years we had five or six herds, each herd numbering from 2,000 to 3,000 steers. At first we could buy cattle in Texas on time and sell them in Kansas and the territories for cash, but the last few years I drove we had to pay cash for cattle and sell to Northern buyers on credit, and then I quit the trail.

I had a number of flattering offers to remain North in the cattle business, but I loved Texas so well that I always returned after each drive.



By Jeff D. Farris of Bryan, Texas

I was born in 1861 on a farm in Madison County, Texas. My parents had moved to the country from Walker County in 1858. They originally came from Tennessee to Texas in 1850. When my father located in Madison County there were only seven white men in the neighborhood where he located. My wife's father hauled the first load of iron that was put on the ground to build up our state penitentiary, which now covers twenty acres of ground. As I grew up I remained on the small farm we cultivated, and in the spring I gathered wild horses and helped brand cattle until 1881, when I went to Bryan with a bunch of cattle, where I found an outfit going to Kansas with a herd belonging to Colonel Jim Ellison of San Marcos. Tom Taylor was the boss and I decided to go along with this outfit and see some of the country that I had heard so much about. I have been told that Tom still lives at Uvalde.

We had 2,500 head to drive and a force of ten men, some of whose names I can't recall. One was named Hamby, and a one-armed boy named Hugh Strong. We went north from Bryan to Cleburne and Fort Worth, and crossed the Red River in Montague County. Just below old Fort Sill we struck the trail for Fort Dodge, Kansas, and passed through the Indian Territory. There was no Oklahoma in those days. When we reached Fort Dodge we continued north until we came to the South Platte River, and from there to Ogallala, Nebraska, on the north side of the river, where I quit the outfit and came home. Ogallala was the town where Sam Bass, the noted outlaw, made his headquarters after holding up the Union Pacific. He later came to Texas and was killed by the Rangers at Round Rock.


I remained at home until the spring of 1883, when I went to Hearne, Texas, and struck out with an outfit going to San "Angelo, in Tom Green County. We left Hearne about the 10th of May and reached San Angelo the later part of July.

In 1885 I married the sweetest woman in all the country and to our union were born five boys and three girls, all of whom are living except one. I am living within half a mile of where I was born.


By Jerry M. Nance of Kyle, Texas

I left Hays County, Texas, on "April 15th, 1877, bound for Cheyenne, Wyoming, with 2,100 cattle, forty head of ponies and two yoke of oxen'


with the chuck wagon. The country was open, no fences to bother us. We crossed the Colorado about four miles below "Austin, and went through Belton. We camped one night near Belton, and while there it came a heavy rain. From here we moved out several miles the next morning to where there was grass, and where we stopped for breakfast. "After we had been there about an hour I saw a man ride up and begin looking over the herd. "After he had looked through closely he came over to the camp and I asked him if he found any of his cattle in the herd. He said no. I asked him to get


down and have breakfast with us, explaining that our breakfast was late on account of leaving Belton so early that morning to get out where there was grazing for the cattle. He said he lived where we had camped the night before, and when we got up the next morning he did not see his small bunch of cattle and thought we had driven them off with our herd. He probably found them when he returned home. We crossed the Brazos above Waco. The river was on a rise and it was so wide that all of the cattle were in the river swimming at the same time, and it looked as if I had no cattle at all, for all we could see was the horns. A boat helped us get the chuck wagon across. One of the boys was taken sick the next day, and went back home. When we reached Fort Worth, then a small village, we bought enough supplies from York Draper to carry us through to Dodge City, Kansas.

We crossed the Red River at Red River Station, into the Indian Territory. After leaving this point we saw no more white people, except those with herds, until we reached Dodge City. When we reached the Washita River it was up and hard to cross. There I met Joel Collins of Goliad. He had just crossed and had made a raft of three big logs tied together with ropes. I exchanged some of my ropes for his raft and used it in ferrying my stuff across. The next day I put the cattle to swimming the river, which had a very swift current. At first they would not take the water, but I cut off bunches of about seventy-five to a hundred and put them to moving Indian fashion and shoved them right off into the water. Some of them would turn and try to come back, but the swift current had carried them down to where the steep banks on this side kept them from coming out, and they had to go across. I crossed the whole herd in this manner. We had but little trouble in getting the horses across. One of the boys had a mule in the outfit which had a pair of hopples tied around his neck, and in swimming the mule passed near a willow limb that had


been broken off by the cattle, and this limb had caught the hopples on the mule's neck and held him there .swimming in the water. I told the man who owned the mule that unless the hopples were cut loose the animal' would drown. It was a dangerous undertaking, but he plunged in and cut the hopples, and the mule swam across. From here we made the trip all right until we reached the North Canadian, which was also on a rise and all over the bottom lands. We waited for several days for the flood waters to .subside, but all to no use. In the meantime other herds had come in sight and, for fear of bad nights and a -up, I decided to make a raft and go across. The cattle were started across and were going fine, when it came up a terrific hailstorm, which interrupted the proceedings. One man was across on the other side of the river, naked, with his horse and saddle and about half of the herd and the balance of us were on this side with the other half of the herd and all the supplies. There was no timber on our side of the river, and when the hail began pelting the boys and myself made a break for the wagon for shelter. We were all naked, and the hail came down so furiously that within a short time it was about two inches deep on the ground. It must have hailed considerably up the river, for the water was so cold we could not get any more of the herd across that day. We were much concerned about getting help to the man across the river. We tried all evening to get one of the boys over, to carry the fellow some clothes and help look after the cattle, but failed in each attempt. We could not see him nor the cattle on account of the heavy timber on the other side, and the whole bottom was covered with water so that it was impossible for him to come near enough to hear us when we called him. The water was so cold that horse nor man could endure it, and in trying to cross over several of them came near drowning and were forced to turn back, so the man on the other side had to stay over there all night alone and naked. I was afraid the Indians


would run the cattle off, but they did not molest them. Next morning everything was lovely and our absent man swam back to us after he had put the cattle in shape. He had a good saddle blanket which he said had kept him comfortable enough during the night. While we were getting the balance of the cattle across one of my Mexican hands suffered three broken ribs and a fractured collar bone by his horse falling with him. Some movers who were waiting for the river to fall, agreed to convey the Mexican to Fort Reno, twenty miles away, for me. "At Fort Reno an army surgeon patched him up, and he remained there until the following September, when he came back home.

On the 8th of June, while we were on the Salt Fork, a cold norther blew up, accompanied by rain, and it soon became so cold we had to stop driving about three o'clock in the afternoon and gather wood for the night. We undertook to hold our cattle that night in the open, but it was so cold that we finally drifted them close to the river where there was a little protection, and kept a man on guard to look after them. About daybreak they stampeded, but we soon caught them without loss of a single head. Eight ponies belonging to other herds near us froze to death that night.

We crossed the "Arkansas River at Dodge, but stopped there one day only, for supplies. "At this place we saw a number of Texas cattlemen who were waiting for their herds.

We crossed the Platte River at Ogallala, Nebraska, and still had a long stretch to cover to reach Cheyenne. Near Julesburg we came to a stone dam across a little creek. There was no sign of a habitation near this dam, and why it was placed there, and who constructed it, was beyond my comprehension.

We reached Cheyenne some time in July, after having been on the trip for about three months. We sold our cattle and ponies and took the railroad for home.


I also drove another herd of two thousand head of cattle from Hays County in 1880 to Dodge City, Kansas. We crossed the Colorado at Webbersville, and after crossing Brushy Creek near Taylor, we struck camp. Just before sundown two men drove up in a wagon, and one of them, who had been drinking, ordered us to move on, saying we could not camp there. I told him he had arrived too late, for we were going to remain right there. He said he would get the sheriff to come and move us, and as he was standing up in the back end of his wagon he fell out when the driver started the team. He turned a complete somersault and fell hard upon the ground. If he had been sober I am sure he would have broken his neck. Picking himself up, he clambered back into his wagon and drove on amid the yells and whoops of my boys. That was the last we saw of him.

After we crossed Gabriel, the other side of Taylor, we turned west and went by Lampasas, and quit the trail on account of water. We passed through Comanche and struck the trail again in Brown County. When we reached Fort Griffin we purchased supplies to last us until we reached Dodge, Kansas. We crossed the Brazos high up where there was not much water in it, and the water it did contain was so salty our cattle would not drink it. At Doan's Store we crossed Red River when it was very low, and I was glad of it. We drove on through the Territory until we reached Dodge. We were bothered some by Indians on this trip.

In 1881 I sold a herd of two thousand head of cattle to be delivered at Ogallala, Nebraska, on the Platte River. I did not go up the trail with this herd that year.

In 1883 I became part owner in a ranch in Jeff Davis County. I shipped my cattle out there and ranched them ten years with the Toyah Land & Cattle Company. In 1885 I drove three thousand steer yearlings out there, which I bought at Columbus, Texas. We went by way of Blanco, Fredericksburg, Mason, San Angelo, up the


Main Concho and across the plains to Fort Stockton. We also had ninety ponies along. That was too many cattle to have in one herd, and they did not do well. Water was scarce and, being late in the season, one sixty- mile drive from the head of the Concho to the Pecos River without water, was a pretty hard trip, worse than going to Kansas.

In 1887 we shipped two thousand head from the ranch to Big Springs, and drove them across to Coolidge, Kansas, where we sold them out. Part of them were shipped west to Pueblo, Colorado, and part of them were driven back to Fort Sill in the Indian Territory, and delivered there.

In 1888 we drove two thousand head to Panhandle City. We sold some of them to be delivered above Amarillo, and the remainder were driven on to Kiowa and sold there. In driving this herd across the plains from the Pecos River to Warfield, a station ten miles west of Midland, I had made arrangements with a ranchman at Warfield to have enough water pumped up for two thousand head of cattle. He had a windmill and troughs for watering and charged five cents per head. We could water only about one hundred and fifty head at a time, so it took some time to water them all. When we had the last bunch in the pen late that evening a heavy hailstorm and rain came up and scattered our herd. Everybody stayed with the herd, which began to drift with the storm's course. Some of the boys used blankets and heavy gloves to protect their heads. We had one baldheaded man in the outfit, and when the hailstorm was over he was a sight to behold. He had welts and bruises all over, and lots of hide had been peeled off. The hail had beaten the grass into the ground and killed lots of jackrabbits in the vicinity. We lost about a hundred head of cattle during the storm, and they were the last ones to water in the pen. We found them the next day several miles away.


In the fall of 1888 we shipped about two thousand head to Colorado City and Sweetwater to winter on account of no grass at the ranch, and in the spring of 1889 we gathered them to ship out. Those at Colorado City were put in a small five-section pasture for a few days before shipping them north. While they were in this little pasture a cyclone came along and killed about one hundred and fifty, two to five-year-old steers and crippled about a hundred others for us. The cyclone was only about one hundred yards wide and went through about a mile of pasture, leaving everything trimmed clean in its path. Even the mesquite switches had all the bark pulled off. Deer, rabbits, owls, snakes, and many other animals were to be found in its wake.


By J. M. Hankins, 2923 South Presa Street,
San Antonio, Texas

I was born in 1851 near Prairie Lea, in Caldwell County, Texas, and remember when the Civil War began and the many hard trials experienced during that period.

It was in 1868 that I recall the first herd of cattle driven from Prairie Lea "up the trail," though possibly Colonel Jack Myers and others at Lockhart had driven earlier. That year Baker & Duke, merchants, bought some steers and exchanged merchandise for them. Father and others put in a few head, and I put in a five-year-old steer, for which I received a pair of shoes, a straw hat and a linen coat, the value of all being about ten dollars, but I was fully rigged out for Sunday wear, and was 'satisfied with the deal.

After 1868 the drives became general and large herds could be seen on the Lockhart trail from March to August. I very often helped local buyers get up bunches


of Kansas cattle, as they were called, and in 1871 I was employed by Smith Brothers at Prairie Lea to go "up the trail." I furnished my own mounts, three corn-fed horses, which they agreed to feed until grass came. We left Prairie Lea the latter part of February for San Miguel Creek, went to San Antonio, and expected to be absent about thirty days. We failed to gather the cattle we expected to on the San Miguel, so we were ordered to move on to the Nueces River, where Jim and Tobe Long and others put up a herd for them. We got back to the San Marcos River about the 15th of May, without having had a bushel of corn for our horses after leaving San Antonio. The country was very dry, no water from one river to the other, no grass nearer than three miles out. Those who worked soon got afoot. Between the Cibolo and Guadalupe Rivers I swapped horses twice in one day, the last time with a negro, and got a small pony which seemed to be fat. That was all I saw until he took his .saddle off, when a foot of hide stuck to the blanket. The boys set up a big laugh, but I "scaffold" up, threw my "hull" on and galloped around the herd. It beat walking and punching the "dogies" dogies" at the rear. I was promoted right then to the flank.

That night I experienced the first stampede. Early in the night it had rained, and I was on the watch. The herd began drifting, and the boss and several others came out to help with the cattle, and after the rain ceased we got them stopped, when Rany Fentress, a negro who had been in stampedes before, came to where I was in the lead and told me to move further away. About that time some of the boys struck a match to light a pipe, and the flare frightened the big steers and they began to run. I was knocked down three times, but managed to stay with the pony, and came out with the drags, which I stayed with until daylight.

After we crossed the San Marcos River the boys began leaving for home, but I remained until the boss said


I could not go until the others returned. At this I re- belled, "cut my bedding," rounded up my "crow bait" and pulled out for home, where I stayed two days. Father insisted that I go back. I told him I had nearly killed three horses, which they never fed as they agreed to. But I went back with a fresh mount and got "fired" just as the herd was ready to start on the trail. Smith Bros. went "busted" that year.

In 1874 I left home again in February with Ellison & Dewees, with young Jim Ellison as boss. We went to San "Antonio, where we received a bunch of cow ponies, and then established camp near the Cibolo, where the Lowe cattle were received and started. Our camp was the catch and cut-out for all the other bosses. Young Jim Ellison took the first herd with all negro hands about the 9th of March. Jim Rowden took the second herd, and so on, until all the Lowe cattle were received and started. Our outfit then went to Burnett County and received our herd from Oatman, mostly wild mountain steers.

When we were nearing Red River we threw in with Peter Smith, making one large herd, with which I stayed until we arrived at Dodge City, Kansas. Our trip was like most others, sometimes good, and at other times pretty tough, especially when the cattle stampeded dur- ing stormy nights and mixed with other herds, causing no end of worry and trouble and often forcing us to go without our breakfast until 10 or 11 o'clock the next day. But as soon as we were filled with frijoles and black coffee, and the sun shone clear, we were jolly and happy again.

One little incident during a run on a stormy night was amusing. The cattle had been running most of the night, but at last they had quieted down. We saw a light a short distance away swinging around, and heard a voice calling out to us. We supposed it was the cook, and the boss said some ugly words about the cook screaming at


us, and sent a man into the herd to find out what he wanted. It turned out to be a man standing on the top of his dug-out, and he was in great distress. The cattle had crushed in the roof of his domicile and one had fallen through his bedroom and disturbed his peaceful slumbers.

The country was wild and unsettled then, and from the Red River to the Kansas line was known as the Indian Territory. Montague was the last town I saw until we reached Great Bend, Kansas. I might add incidents, but as short sketches for this book are expected, will say to all the old cow-punchers and trail drivers of Texas that I will be glad to meet any of you and talk about the old times and the pioneers of Texas.


By J. N. Byler of Dallas, Texas

I was raised in East Texas and worked cattle back in the piney woods and canebrakes of that region. Went West after the Civil War and worked cattle there. The range was at that time somewhat overstocked with beef cattle and bulls. A great many of the old bulls were shipped over to Cuba, and supplied the natives there with beef. In getting them ready to ship the cowboys would rope them on the range, throw them down, and chop the points of their horns off with an axe to keep them from hurting each other on the boats. In those days beef cattle on the range were worth about $10 per head. A few were driven to Lousiana.

In 1866 Monroe Choate and B. A. Borroum drove a herd to Iowa to find a market. They crossed Red River at Colbert's Ferry, went by way of Boggy Depot, crossed the Arkansas at Fort Gibson, and then struck west of the settlements of Kansas.


In 1867 Butler, Baylor & Rose drove a herd to Abilene, Kansas, as did also Pucket & Rogers.

In 1868 the drives were pretty heavy, but further west, crossing Red River at Gainesville. In 1869 and 1870 they were heavier still, most of the herds crossing at Red River Station, passing east of old Fort Sill and west of the Indian and negro settlements, over which route water and grass were plentiful. This was known as the old Chisholm Trail. When we reached Kansas we usually found plenty of buffalo. When these animals were disturbed they would begin to travel northward. That is where the expression "wild and woolly" originated. When the boys reached "Abilene or some other Kansas town, they were usually long-haired and needing a barber's attention, as there were no barbers on the trail. Upon being asked how they got there, they would sing out : "Come the Chisholm trail with the buffalo wild and woolly."


By G. W. Scott of Uvalde, Texas

I was born at Comfort, Texas, September 3, 1871, and was raised on a ranch. In 1876 my father moved to Coleman County, but in 1877 he moved to Frio County and bought a farm. In 1888 I came to Uvalde, and in the spring of 1890 I hired to Paul Handy of Colorado to drive a herd to that state. We left the Plank Pens on the Leona Ranch south of Uvalde on March 10 with our herd, numbering 2,221 two-year-old steers, sixty-four horses and eleven men, including the cook. We crossed the Nueces and camped the first night in the Moore & Allen pasture. After six or eight days our herd was easily controlled, especially at night. Grass and water were plentiful, and we had an easy time until we reached


Fort McKavett, where I accidentally caused the cattle to stampede one moonlight night. From here we drove to San Angelo and stopped one night near that town, which at that time was a wide-open place. Several of the boys went in to see the sights and have a good time. We drove our herd across the plains to Quanah, where we were quarantined for several weeks on account of Texas fever. While we were here holding our cattle it came up a severe rainstorm one night and we had another stampede, the steers going in all directions, running over wire fences and going across creeks that happened to be in their course. We had thirteen steers killed by lightning that night. When daylight came I was about four miles from camp with four hundred head of the steers. We held these steers at Quanah for seven weeks before being allowed to proceed on to Colorado.

In 1881 I went with a herd to White Lake, New Mexico, for James Dalrymple, starting from the Leona Ranch. Most of the boys in this outfit were from the Frio Canyon, and I recall the names of Sam Everts, George Leakey, Tobe Edwards, James Crutchfield, Os Brown, Allison Davis and Tip Davis. We drove 2,178 two-year- old steers this trip, crossing the Nueces River at Eagle Pass crossing. We headed north toward Devil's River, which we crossed above Paint Cave. At this time the range was dry and water scarce, and many of our cattle gave out and had to be left on the trail. We reached the Pecos River, at the mouth of Live Oak, where we rested for a few days. We were in the Seven D range at this time, and Taylor Stevenson was foreman of the Seven D Ranch, and he brought his outfit and helped us work up the Pecos from the mouth of Live Oak to Horse Head Crossing, where we left the thinnest of our cattle and proceeded on our journey. Our next point was Mid-land, where we found plenty of fine grass and water. After leaving Midland we again found a dry range with no grass. When we reached the Colorado River that


stream was very low. Here I saw my first buffalo, but it was a tame animal and was branded a long S on each side. Ed Hagerman of Kimble County was ahead of us with a herd of the Half Circle L C cattle. After a great deal of hard luck and trouble we reached Yellow Horse Draw about ten miles from Lubbock, where we encountered a heavy hailstorm. We had lost a great many of our cattle on the trip, and the sudden change chilled a number of others to death as well as five saddle horses. We left camp at this point with only 1,072 head. We reached White Lake, New Mexico, on June 21, and delivered to Mr. Handy. Here we found Ham Bee and his outfit and accompanied them back to Midland, where we took the train for Uvalde.


By B. A. Borroum of Del Rio, Texas

My first experience on the


trail was in the year 1870. About the first of "April of that year I started from Monroe Choate's Ranch in Karnes County with a herd of cattle belonging to Choate & Bennett. E. B. Rutledge was the boss and part owner. Among the hands were Jesse McCarty, Drew Lamb, George Blackburn, John Strait, and one or two others whose names I have forgotten. Going north all the time, we crossed the Guadalupe at Gonzales, the Colorado at Austin, the Brazos at Old Fort Graham, the Trinity at Fort Worth, Red River at Red


River Station, the Washita at Dr. Stearn's, the Red Fork near Turkey Creek Stage Stand in Kaw Reservation, the Salt Fork at Cow Creek Station, the Arkansas at Wichita, the Smoky at Abilene, Kansas, which was our destination, and where we arrived about July first.

Like many others, when I had work for the time being I did not think I would ever make another trip up the trail, but also like many others, when the next drive came I was " 'rarin" to go. In the spring of 1871 I again went up with a herd belonging to Choate & Bennett, with Jack Scroggin as boss and part owner. The hands on this trip were W. M. Choate, John Paschal, Monroe Stewart, Joe Copeland, John Ferrier, myself and John Sumner, the cook. We started from Rock Creek, Atascosa County, about the first of "April and traveled the same trail after coming into it at Gonzales through to Abilene. We went into the Chisholm Trail about three miles below Red River Station, and just as soon as we crossed Red River all our stock seemed to go wild, especially our horses, although we did not come into contact with any buffalo until we reached a point between the Red Fork and the Salt Fork of the "Arkansas River. Several herds lost heavily at that time by cattle and horses getting into the buffalo drifts, which were at that season drifting northward. These animals were in countless numbers; in fact, the whole face of the earth seemed to be literally covered with them, all going in the same direction. The drovers were compelled to send men on ahead to keep them from stampeding their herds. On a plain about halfway between the Red Fork and the Salt Fork we had to stop our herds until the buffalo passed. Buffalo, horses, elk, deer, antelope, wolves, and some cattle were all mixed together, and it took several hours for them to pass, with our assistance, so that we could proceed on our journey. I think there were more buffalo in that herd than I ever saw of any living thing, unless it was an army of grasshoppers in Kansas in July, 1874. Just after we crossed


the Red Fork I went on ahead of the herd to the Trinity Creek Stage Stand, a distance of about six miles, and at this place I found the present president of the Old Trail Drivers' "Association, George W. Saunders, surrounded by a big bunch of Kaw Indians. George was mounted on a little gray bob-tailed pony, his saddle had no horn, and one stirrup leather was made of rawhide and the other was a grass hopple. He was trying his best to trade those Indians out of a buffalo gun, as he was in the buffalo range. And he made the deal. I never saw him again until after we reached Kansas, when the drovers made up an outfit to bring their horses back to Texas. George and I were in this outfit and we came back the trail we had gone up, except we crossed Red River at Gainesville instead of at Red River Station.

I went up the trail again in 1874, starting from Druce Rachel's ranch on the Nueces Bay in San Patricio County, March 25th. This herd also belonged to Choate & Bennett, with D. C. Choate as boss. We followed the same trail as previously mentioned. After crossing Red River we stopped on the Ninnesquaw for the summer, and shipped out in the fall from Great Bend. The Osage Indians being on the warpath, we had to detour our horses in bringing them back to Texas, crossing the "Arkansas River near Coffeyville into the Cerokee, Creek, Choctaw and Chickasaw nations, crossing Red River at Colbert's Ferry near Sherman into Texas.

In the '80s I drove several herds up the western trail to Dodge City, Kansas, for the firm of Borroum & Choate. I think everyone of the boys that went up with the herds mentioned above have passed beyond the Divide from which no mortal returns, except Brown (A. B.), Paschal and myself.



By G. O. Burrows of Del Rio, Texas

I had my share of the ups and downs principally downs— on the old cattle trail. Some of my experiences


were going hungry, getting wet and cold, riding sorebacked horses, going to sleep on herd and losing cattle, getting "cussed" by the boss, scouting for "gray-backs," trying the "sick racket" now and then to get a night's sleep, and other things too numerous to mention in this volume. But all of these were forgotten when we delivered our herd and started back to grand old Texas. Have often stopped a few days in Chicago, St. Louis and Kansas City, but always had the "big time" when I arrived in good old Santone rigged out with a pair of high-heeled boots and striped breeches, and about $6.30 worth of other clothes. Along about sundown you could find me at Jack Harris' show occupying a front seat and clamoring for the next performance. This "big time" would last but a few days, however, for I would soon be "busted" and would have to borrow money to get out to the ranch, where I would put in the fall and winter telling about the big things I had seen up North. The next spring I would have the same old trip, the same old things would happen in the same old way, and with the same old wind-up. I put in eighteen or twenty years on the trail, and all I had in the final outcome was the high-heeled boots, the striped pants and about $4.80 worth of other clothes, so there you are.



By William J. Bennett of Pearsall, Texas

My father moved to Texas in 1848 from Randolph County, Missouri, and settled on the Trinity River about five miles from Fort Worth, which was at that time an Indian Reservation with Lieutenant Worth in command of the post. There was only one store there then. The Indians often came to my father's house and were friendly to the few white settlers there. Game was plentiful, deer, turkey, buffalo and prairie chickens, as well as the fiercer animals. We lived near Fort Worth four or five years, until father sold out to a man named Parker, and we moved above Fort Worth some twenty miles to Newark. After remaining there a few years we then moved down to Frio County in the fall of 1858 and located on the Leona River, where we found a fine country, with wild game and fish galore. We brought with us about four hundred head of cattle, which were allowed to roam at will over the excellent range, there being no fences to keep them confined to the immediate vicinity of our ranch. But they did not get far away from us for some time, or until other ranchers began to locate around us, when the cattle began to mix with other cattle and then began to stray off, some drifting as far as the Rio Grande or the coast. Soon the settlers began to organize cow hunts and work the cattle. I have been on cow hunts when there were as many as one hundred men working together from different counties. Stockmen of today do not know anything about the hard work and the strenuous times we encountered in those days. Sometimes we would be out for weeks at a time, starting every morning at daylight, and probably not getting in before dark, tired and hungry, and having to do without dinner all day. Our fare consisted of cornbread, black coffee and plenty of good beef.


We were not bothered by the Indians very much until the Civil War, when the troops were largely withdrawn from the frontier posts, and the country was left unprotected. The Indians came in great numbers then, killing many settlers and driving off a great many of their stock. Also Mexican cattle thieves became troublesome, and stole thousands of cattle off the range, which they would drive across the Rio Grande into Mexico. Many of the ranchmen were compelled to take their families back to the settlements for protection. After the Civil War cattle soon became plentiful on the range, and Sam Allen of Powder Horn soon had a monopoly on the shipping by chartering every boat from there to New Orleans. He sent men out all over the country to buy fat cattle, which made times pretty good for a while, but as no one could ship by water except "Allen, the demand was soon filled, and in order to reach the market for their stock the cattlemen began driving their cattle to Kansas. In 1872 I took my first herd, starting from Uvalde and going up that long and lonesome trail to Wichita, Kansas. We had a pretty good time going up, with only a few storms and stampedes, and lost no cattle. We crossed the Red River at Red River Station, then took the old Chisholm Trail and went out of the Indian Territory at Caldwell, Kansas. After holding my herd at that point about three months I sold to A. H. Pierce, and came home by way of Kansas City, St. Louis, New Orleans, Galveston, and then to Austin on the new railroad, and from Austin by stage to San "Antonio and Uvalde.

In 1873 I took another herd of steers up the trail. Had a pretty hard time that trip and lost many head of cattle and about all I received for them. Nearly all of the Texas cattlemen went broke that year, as it was the year of the severe panic, when silver was demonetized.

During the years 1874 and 1875 occurred what is still remembered by the old-timers as the "Big Steal." Cattle were driven off and the country was left bare. They


drove them off in all directions, some to Kansas, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico, "Arizona and California.

Then came the sheep men with large flocks, and prosperity again smiled upon us. With the advent of the man with the plow, the sheepman moved further west, and the scream of the panther and the howl of the wolf began to give place to the whistle of the locomotive and the hum of the cotton gin. It would require volumes to record all of the hardships and dangers we went through during the sixty years I have lived in the West, and I merely contribute this brief sketch to add my testimony to that of the other pioneers that helped to blaze the trail through the wilderness.

During the Civil War, and for many years after the war, the people of this station hauled their supplies out from San Antonio in ox wagons, and in looking back to those times and comparing them with the present we cannot but discern the great change that has been wrought. Our manner of travel was necessarily slow in those days. Sometimes we were on the trail for four and five months. It usually required three months to take a herd to the Red River. Only a few days ago the papers gave an account of an aviator flying from San "Antonio to Oklahoma City, a distance of over six hundred miles, in the short space of three hours ! Such a feat was undreamed of in those old days, and if even a prediction of such things happening had been made no one would have believed it would ever come to pass. May we not venture to predict that in another sixty years somebody will have established a trail to Mars or other planets, and our descendants may be signalling the latest market quotations to the cowmen of those parts?



By Luther A. Lawhon

My fancy drifts as often, through the murky, misty maze
Of the past —to other seasons —to the good old cowboy days,
When the grass wuz green an' wavin' an' the skies wuz soft and blue,
And the men were brave an' loyal, and the women fair an' true !
The old-time cowboy —here's to him, from hired hand to boss!
His soul wuz free from envy and his heart wuz free from dross,
An' deep within his nature, which wuz rugged, high and bold,
There ran a vein uv metal, and the metal, men, wuz gold !

He'd stand up— drunk or sober—'gin a thousand fer his rights ;
He'd sometimes close an argument by shootin' out the lights ;
An' when there was a killin', by the quickest on the draw,
He wern't disposed to quibble 'bout the majesty uv law;
But a thief —a low-down villain —why, he had no use for him
An' wuz mighty apt to leave 'im danglin' from a handy limb.
He wuz heeled and allers ready—quick with pistol or with knife,
But he never shirked a danger or a duty in his life !

"An' at a tale uv sorrow or uv innocence beguiled
His heart wuz just as tender as the heart uv any child.
"An' woman— aye, her honor wuz a sacred thing ; an' hence
He threw his arms around her— in a figurative sense.


His home wuz yours, where'er it wuz, an' open stood the door,
Whose hinges never closed upon the needy or the poor;
An, high or low —it mattered not— the time, if night or day,.
The stranger found a welcome just as long as he would stay.

Wuz honest to the marrow, and his bond wuz in his word.
He paid for every critter that he cut into his herd;
An' take your note because he loaned a friend a little pelf 7
No, sir, indeed! He thought you wuz as worthy as himself.
An' when you came and paid it back, as proper wuz an' meet,
You trod upon forbidden ground to ask for a receipt.
In former case you paid the debt (there weren't no intres' due),
"An' in the latter —chances wuz he'd put a hole through you !

The old-time cowboy had 'is faults ; 'tis true, as has been said,
He'd look upon the licker when the licker, men, wuz red;
His language weren't allers spoke accordin' to the rule ;
Ner wuz it sech as ye'd expect to hear at Sunday school.
But when he went to meetin', men, he didn't yawn or doze,
Or set there takin' notice of the congregation's clothes.
He listened to the preacher with respect, an' all o' that,
An' he never failed to ante when they passed aroun' the hat !

I call to mind the tournament, an' then the ball at night ;
Of how old Porter drawed the bow an' sawed with all his might ;


Of how they'd dance— the boys an' girls ; an' how that one wuz there
With rosy cheeks, an' hazel eyes, an' golden, curly hair ;
An' I —but here I'm techin' on a mighty tender spot;
That boyhood love, at this late day, had better be forgot ;
But still at times my heart goes back agin' and fondly strays
Amidst those dear remembered scenes the good old cowboy days !

The old-time cowboy wuz a man all over ! Hear me, men !
I somehow kinder figger we'll not see his like agin.
The few that's left are older now ; their hair is mostly white ;
Their forms are not so active, and their eyes are not so bright
As when the grass wuz wavin' green, the skies wuz soft an' blue,
An' men were brave, an' loyal, and the women fair and true,
An' the land wuz filled with plenty, an' the range wuz free to graze,
An' all rode as brothers— in the good old cowboy days !


Sol West, one of the best-known cattlemen in Texas, who is a part owner of a ranch of 30,000 acres in Jackson County, worked a whole year for 75 cents and board, when a young man. Mr. West belongs to the old school of cattlemen. He received his business training in the early days in Texas when the chief occupation of its citizenship was raising cattle, but the more difficult proposition was to find a market for them. Texas had no


ways then except in the eastern portion of the state, and these were not available, for


the reason that they did not go to Kansas and the Northwest. Men were forced to do some farming, for they had to raise corn in order to have bread.

In the early days an occasional buyer who resided in Southwest Texas would purchase a herd of 8,000 or 10,000 steers on time. There was no payment made at the time of the purchase, for the reason that the buyer needed all the money at his disposal to defray the expense of the drive. The seller did not even take his note for the purchase price, because he knew he was dealing with an honest man. The only evidence of debt was the tally of the cattle, giving the numbers in each class, including the mark and brand they bore. The purchaser would head north with them. Sometimes he would go to Ellsworth, Abilene or Dodge City, Kansas, or some other point at the southern teminus of railroad transportation where the chief occupation of the cowboy at times was to see that his shooting irons were in good working order. Sometimes the herd would be headed for Montana, Dakota or Nebraska. The seller did not exact any promise from the purchaser to pay for the cattle at a certain time, for neither of them knew whether it would take one, two or three years for the buyer to dispose of his holdings, and get back to Texas again. There was always a satisfactory settlement, however, when he returned. If he had the money to pay for them it was all right, but if he had lost half of them in a blizzard, the seller did not take his note


for the balance due and insist on its being secured by a mortgage. The slate was wiped clean and work began again shipping up another herd on the same terms.

The trite old saying that "man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn" had no place in the lexicon of the Texas cattlemen in those days. He was then, as he is now, ready to lend a helping hand to a deserving fellowman, and he could shed tears as easily as a woman when his friends were bowed in grief.

It was amid such surroundings that the firm of McCutcheon & West of Lavaca County, composed of the late Willis McCutcheon of Victoria and George W. West, was preparing another herd of cattle to go North. Sol West, now a resident of San Antonio, was a younger brother of George W. West. While still a mere stripling he had made three previous trips up the trail, and the firm made a deal with him in 1874 to take a herd to Ellsworth, Kansas, for half the profits. He was the youngest man who ever "bossed" a herd up the trail.

It was a trip fraught with some adventure, considerable responsibility, and very little cash," said Mr. West a few days ago, while he was in the reminiscent mood. "I was the first man to reach Ellsworth that spring, notwithstanding the trials and tribulations which beset us, and as a mark of their appreciation, the business men of the town presented me with a suit of clothes, hat, boots and, in fact, a new outfit entirely. I stayed around up there all year, selling a few steers here, a few there. There never had been such a spree of weather as greeted us in the Indian Territory on our way up. Myself and the men got back to Lavaca County about December 1st. My brother George was the bookkeeper for the firm of McCutcheon & West, and when I turned over to him the list of my receipts and expenditures, and what cash I brought back with me, he proceeded to figure up results. I had to check it up very carefully to be sure that he made


no mistake. We had agreed on a price for the cattle when I started with them, and I was to have one-half of all they brought over that price, after deducting the expenses incident to the trip. The net profit on the year's work was $1.50, and when my brother handed me the 75c he made some jocular inquiry as to whether I expected to buy a herd of my own, or start a bank with it.

"I left Lavaca County on February 27th, 1874, with the herd, and on the night of the 28th reached Gonzales Prairie, in Gonzales County. On the 1st day of March we crossed the Red River into the Indian Territory without any mishap, having had a splendid drive, with clear, open weather all the way. But this was not to last long. We pushed on north, and late in the afternoon of April 6th we reached Rush Creek, where the two prongs came together just above the trail. The range had been burned off by the Indians and was black, but, being protected by two streams, the grass between these prongs was fine. We stayed there for two days, and on the morning of the 8th took an early start for a camp on Hell Roaring Creek, about fifteen miles further north, which I had selected because grass and water were plentiful there. The cook, with the wagon, had preceded us, but we got sight of camp about three o'clock in the afternoon. The day had been a bad one, misting rain and snowing lightly all day, with a brisk wind from the north. Just as the head cattle came within about one hundred yards of camp at the foot of some high hills the blizzard broke forth with increased fury. The cattle at once turned their heads to the south and began to drift with the wind. I knew we were in for a bad night of it, and there was not a man in the outfit over 20 years old. We held them back as best we could until after dark. In the meantime the horses ridden by the boys had actually frozen to death, and their riders on them during our progress of about five miles. My horse was the last to go down.

"I had instructed the boys that when the horses went


down they should go back to camp. When I was forced to leave my horse there were two men with me, both on foot, of course. One of them was Charles Boyce of Goliad County, who is now a prosperous stock farmer, and who will easily recall that fearful night. The other was Jake Middlebrack of Lavaca County, who returned to that county with us, but of whom I have lost sight for many years. We finally got the cattle checked, after the wind had subsided a little, and as we had not touched a bite to eat since early morning, we began to cast about for something to break our fast. We had each a box of matches, but our hands were so numb that we could not strike one, even if we could have gotten the box out of our pockets.

"Presently I saw a light in the hills about two miles away. We started for it and reached the dug-out, for such it proved to be, after a weary trudge of an hour or more. The dug-out had two rooms and the men took us in after we told them our hard luck story. They gave us a fine supper and put us to bed in the spare room, with plenty of good warm bedding. The next morning at the peep of day I roused out the boys. I found a dun pony under a shed on the outside with a bridle and saddle convenient and I appropriated it and told the boys to follow me down in the direction of the herd, provided it was where we had left it. They followed me down and I found the herd intact, just where we had left it the night before, after one of the coldest nights I ever experienced.

"Soon after I reached the herd the other boys hove in sight and we started the cattle back towards the camp, the snow, sleet and ice being a foot and a half deep. Hell Roaring Creek and all the other streams in that section were frozen hard. We had traveled a couple of miles down the creek when I discovered a man on foot coming toward us. He proved to be Al Fields of Victoria. He was what was known as my neighbor on the trail, having a herd just behind me. He was overjoyed to see me,


as he feared we had all frozen to death that night before. All of his horses and work oxen had frozen to death and his herd was scattered to the four winds. When we finally reached the camp Jim Taylor, the man who had entertained us in the dug-out the night before, and about fifteen of his men, were there.

"Charles Boyce had told me previously that he was not in a very good humor about the plan I had adopted to borrow his horse. I proved to be a good talker, how- ever, and when I got through Jim said he guessed $1.50 would be enough for the use of the horse. I told him that the price was cheap enough, but I didn't tell him there was only ten cents in cash in the whole outfit. I traded him some steers for three horses and a mule, and included the $1.50 in the trade. Our troubles were not to end here, however.

"Two men were behind with the 'remuda' of 65 horses used by the men on alternate days in coming up the trail. I sent two of the boys back to meet them, and led them into camp. Going back about eight miles, they met the men coming toward camp on foot, as the whole 65 head had frozen to death the night before in a space not larger than an ordinary dwelling house, and the boys had only saved themselves from a like fate by building a fire in the blackjack timber and keeping it going all night. We held the herd there for a couple of days with the three horses and the mule, and I traded some steers to the Indians for three more horses. We then started on north and reached Ellsworth on May 20th. This heavy loss of horse flesh was a prominent factor in the hindrance which cut the net profits of the drive down to $1.50. Not a single one out of 78 head of horses survived the terrible blizzard of four or five hours' duration."

Mr. and Mrs. Sol West now reside at 422 Pershing Avenue, San Antonio, Texas. Their two sons, George W. West, Jr., and Ike West, are ranching in Zavalla County, Texas. Their daughter, Mrs. "Alfred Pierce


Ward, lives in San Antonio—all enjoying good health and prosperous.

Mr. West made twelve successive trips over the trail from the coast of Texas to Colorado, Kansas, Nebraska and other Northern markets with large herds of Texas cattle. His first trip was in 1871—a good many trips for a boy to make without break, and he didn't ride in any automobiles on these trips.


By Joe F. Spettel, Rio Medina, Texas

I was born in the Haby Settlement in 1856, and have lived in Medina County all my life. My parents were


Castro colonists and came to this country in 1844, locating in the Haby Settlement. My father, John Spettel, was a "Forty-niner," and went to seek his fortune in the California gold fields. He, with two companions, made quite a lucky strike, but in returning homeward they were overtaken by a band of robbers, his companions were killed and father received a bullet wound which eventually caused his death, although he lived for several years afterward. He came home and remained a while, and again went to California, but did not find mining so successful as on his former trip. However, he brought back some gold nuggets that are still in the possession of our family.

In 1852 he married Miss Mary Haby, and of this union


were born three children, respectively, John B., Mary and Joseph F. Spettel. My father died in 1857, his early demise being due to the wound he received while prospecting. My sister became the wife of my partner, Louis Schorp, and she died in 1905. My brother died in 1909, so I am the sole survivor of one of the most courageous men that ever resided in this vicinity, who overcame all obstacles to penetrate the unknown Western land to accumulate a fortune.

After my father's death my mother had to depend on hired help, as we were not large enough to take care of the farm and stock. At this time we had but one horse, and the Indians stole him. As time went on we began to prosper, our cattle increased and we had a fine bunch of saddle horses, but fate was against us, it seemed, for in 1866 the Indians made another raid in our settlement and drove off every cow pony we owned. We did not let this misfortune discourage us, but purchased more horses and soon were able to take the proper care of our cattle.

During the Civil War we were troubled a great deal by the soldiers, who would come into the community and gather up all the able-bodied men and boys. But the settlers would keep out of their way as much as possible and hide out their work oxen and horses to keep the soldiers from taking them.

In 1870 the Indians made another raid in our neighborhood, but failed to take any of our horses, as we had heard of their approach and penned our stock. My uncle had two horses in a small pasture which he trained to come home when he whistled to them. That night he called them up and staked them near the house, armed himself with a shotgun, concealed himself behind a tree and waited the results. About one o'clock the horses began to snort and caper around, and he knew Indians were near. Looking around he saw three Indians coming along the rail fence in a trot. Just as the Indians were opposite him the foremost put his head inside the


fence between the upper and second rails, and my uncle cut down on him with that old shotgun, which was loaded with buckshot. The Indian dropped in his tracks and his companions instantly vanished. The following full moon another raid was made, probably by the same band, but they did not steal any horses this time. They went into a field about three hundred yards from home and cut up many melons. One of our dogs came home with an arrow sticking in his neck.

During the seventies two companions and myself drove a hundred fat steers from Medina County to Luling, the nearest railway station, from where they were loaded and shipped to New Orleans.

In the spring of 1873 I assisted in driving five hundred aged steers from Haby Settlement to a place above San Antonio, where we delivered them to John F. Lytle and Bill Perryman, and were met by another herd owned by the same men, who drove them up the Kansas trail to Northern markets.

In 1875 Julius Wurzbach, my brother and I put up a herd of eleven hundred steers for the the firm of Lytle & McDaniel. It was in charge of Gus Black, who now resides in Kinney County. We continued to gather herds for Lytle & McDaniel for several years.

In 1878, while on a round-up near the Medina and Uvalde county line, one night the Indians made a raid and tried to steal our horses, but succeeded in getting only four.

From 1878 to 1887 my brother and I looked after our stock and sold steers near our home. In 1883 Louis Schorp married my sister, and we formed a partnership, and our ranches are still known as the Schorp & Spettel property. In 1887 we purchased a ranch in Frio County and drove our aged steers there every fall and shipped them to market each following June.



By H. D. Gruene of Goodwin, Texas

In the spring of 1870 William Murchison, who was living on the Colorado River, told me that William Green of Llano and Colonel Myers of Lockhart were getting ready to take a herd of cattle to Kansas, and asked me to go along as he had hired to them. I secured the consent of my father, as I was only nineteen years old at that time, and Bill and I pulled out for Llano, where I was engaged by Mr. Green at $30.00 a month. After several days gathering the cattle we started on our trip with two wagons carrying grub and luggage, going by way of Burnett and Belton, where we had an awful rain one night and all of our cattle got away. We finally succeeded in getting them together without loss of a single head. When we reached Fort Worth the Trinity River was on a rise, and we were compelled to drive our cattle some distance up the river to swim them across. From there we had good going and crossed Red River at Red River Station into the Indian Territory. In the Territory during the rainy nights we had several stampedes, and they came so often we soon got used to them. When we reached Abilene, Kansas, where we were to deliver the cattle, we held the herd for several weeks and were surprised to learn that the cattle would have to be driven to Cheyenne, Wyoming. "All of the Texas boys quit the herd and returned home, with the exception of four, myself being one of the number who consented to remain with the outfit. Brace Lincecum of Lockhart was the boss of the bunch that was to take the cattle to Cheyenne. After many days' hard driving we reached our destination. There the cattle were sold to another party who wanted them delivered at Bear River, 110 miles above Salt Lake City, Utah, and our boss, Mr. Lincecum, was


employed to take them there. I went along on condition that I was to receive $60 per month and that I would not have to work at the rear of the herd. John Riggs of Lockhart was my companion on this drive.

We had to take the cattle through the Rocky Mountains, and we found the nights so cold we had to burn sagebrush to keep warm.

After the cattle were delivered all of the boys were paid off, and I received my wages in twenty-dollar gold pieces. We boarded a train to Ogden, where we stopped off and went to Salt Lake City. There we bought some new clothes and had a general "cleaning-up," for we were pretty well inhabited by body lice, the greatest pest encountered on the trail. The next day we took the train for "Abilene, Kansas, and there we each bought a horse and rode as far as Baxter Springs, Missouri, where we met up with some people named Wilks, who were living at Mountain City, Hays County, Texas. They were returning to Texas, and as they had four wagons, we made arrangements to travel with them. For our passage and board we agreed to do the cooking for the crowd. We finally reached home after a trip that covered nine months.

The following year (1871) I made another trip, but went only as far as Kansas City. I had 335 head of cattle which I put in with a bunch belonging to William Green. When we reached the end of our trip we found cattle were selling very cheap, and we had to sell on credit. The party to whom I sold went broke and I lost all that was due me. This was my last trip. After a year at home I married and settled at Goodwin, my present home, where, with much hard labor, in which my wife bore more than her part, we have prospered and are living very contented. I am in the mercantile business and handle lumber and implements as well, besides having a cotton gin, and own some good farms. We have four children, two boys and two girls, and they are all


right here with me helping to conduct my business. Our place is better known as Gruene's, and any time any of my old friends come this way I will appreciate a visit.


By Henry D. Steele, San Antonio, Texas

Early in the spring of 1882 I was employed by Mark Withers of Lockhart, to go up the trail with a herd to Kansas. Before starting on


the trip I went to San Antonio and purchased a complete cowboy equipment, broad-brimmed hat, leggins, Colt's pistol, scabbard, cartridges, and the usual trimmings. We went down into McMullen County to get the cattle, and I was selected as horse-wrangler for the outfit. The cattle were bought from a man by the name of Martin. While we were at Tilden, George Hill came up with some of the boys and helped to gather the herd. I was pretty much of a "tender-foot," just a slip of a boy, and the hands told me this man Hill was a pretty tough character and would steal anything he could get his hands on, besides he might kill me if I didn't watch him. They loaded me up pretty well on this kind of information, and I really believed it. They would steal my matches, cartridges, cigarette papers and handkerchiefs, and tell me that Hill got them. I reached the time when I was deprived of almost


everything I had and even had to skin prickly pears to get wrapping for my cigarettes, believing all the while that the fellow Hill had cleaned me up. Things were getting serious and I was desperate, and if Hill had made any kind of a break the consequences would probably have been disaster. At last Hill, who was fully aware of the game that was being played on me, called me aside and told me that it was all a put-up job, and said it had been carried far enough. We all had a good laugh and

John Story was our cook until we reached Coleman County, but there he left us and returned to Lockhart, to engage in the blacksmith business. After Story left us I had to do the cooking some time, and, getting tired of that work, I quit the herd and returned home, George Hill accompanying me as far as Austin.

In the spring of 1883 I was employed by Dick Head of Lockhart to go with a herd. Monroe Hardeman was boss. We gathered the cattle in Mason and Coleman Counties. The cattle were pretty thin, as the range was dry and had little grass. We passed through McCulloch County, through North Texas, and into the Indian Terri- tory. Crossed the Washita River when it was on a big rise. That night we had a severe thunderstorm and I lost my hat during the rain.

When we reached Dodge City, Kansas, we remained there several days to allow the herd to rest, and from here we proceeded to Ogallala, Nebraska, where Mr. Head sold the cattle, and most of the crew came home, but Joe Lovelady, Pat Garrison, myself and Charlie Hedgepeth, a negro, went on with the herd to Cheyenne, Wyoming, where we ,arrived in "August. When we started back we bought our tickets for Austin, and the price was $33.35 each.

It has been just thirty-seven years since I went over the trail. I do not know what has become of the men who went with me on that trip. One of the hands, Charlie


Hedgepeth, the negro, was hanged at Seguin by a mob some years ago. I saw Mark Withers at the Old Trail Drivers' reunion in San Antonio in 1917.


By George N. Steen, Bryan, Texas

Taking the advice of Jake Ellison, in 1867 I decided to go into the cattle business. I had no money, but the people let me take their cattle on credit, and I gathered enough to start a herd from San Marcos, Texas, to "Abilene, Kansas, in the spring of 1868. I had six cowboys and only one hundred dollars to start on the trip with, but I knew I would get through somehow. When we reached Gainesville my money was all gone, and our stock of grub was low. I went into the town to see if I could buy enough groceries to last until we could get through the Indian Territory. I was a perfect stranger there, and did not know a man in the town. I went into George Howell's store, told Mr. Howell my circumstances, and asked if he could credit me for what I needed. He looked me straight in the eye for a few seconds and said he would do so. And he didn't ask for a mortgage or a note or anything to hold me bound except my word to pay.

Our bread gave out before we got through the Indian Territory, and I started foraging. One of the boys in my outfit had a ten dollar gold piece and loaned it to me to use in buying flour. I struck a small trail and followed it until it led me to a little old log cabin. I got off my horse and went inside and found an old Indian who could not speak very much English, and did not seem to understand what I wanted. Looking around the room I saw a sack of flour and said to him, "How much take?" He


said "Ten dollars," so I gave him the gold piece and went back to camp rejoicing."

Capt. Bill George of Seguin joined me while going through the Indian Territory. We had some trouble with Indians on the trip. One night our herd was stampeded and we discovered that it was a ruse played by the Indians to get possession of our horses. I heard them rustling about and put after them, with the result that I captured a horse and bridle. Next morning when we started the herd we tied the horse at the edge of a mot of timber, and I concealed myself in the thicket to watch for developments. Pretty soon an Indian came to the horse and I covered him with my gun. He thought his time to depart to the happy hunting grounds had arrived. After giving him a good scare I made him promise to quit thieving and to never again attempt to steal horses from trail drivers. Then I let him go.

I was in Abilene when Tom Bowles and Wild Bill, the city marshal, had a shooting scrape and a policeman was killed by a stray bullet. While we were there one night a man was drinking at a bar in a saloon, and somebody fired in from outside, the bullet striking him in the mouth and instantly killing him. Later one of the boys with a Texas herd was shot and killed by one of the Mexican hands. The Mexican skipped out. A reward was offered for his capture dead or alive, and Wesley Hardin got the reward.


By F. M. Polk of Luling, Texas

My first experience on the cow trail was in 1872. I went with Joe Tennison and Warnell Polk, my father. We traveled the trail known as "the Old Chisholm Trail." We left for Lockhart, Texas, on the first of


April and went by way of Fort Worth. Fort Worth was a new town then and, of course, we had to stop over and see the sights. After leaving Fort Worth we made good time until we reached Red River, which we crossed at Red River Station. The river was swollen by the heavy spring rains and we were forced to swim our cattle through very deep and swift water. We lost a few, but felt lucky in getting off light.

We were a care-free bunch, had lots of fun and also lots of hard work. It was the spring of the year and the woods were very beautiful. We would pitch our tents at night, get our work all done, and after supper would light our pipes and sit or lounge around the campfire and listen to the other men spin their hair-raising yarns, of their earlier trips. We would then make our beds, using our saddles for pillows, stretch our tired limbs and soon be sound asleep and know nothing else until morning, unless something happened to disturb the cattle, when we would bound up and be ready for action.

I recall one stampede especially on this trip. We had camped on the south side of the North Canadian River one stormy night and after retiring we heard a big noise and we were up and out to the cattle in a very few minutes. We soon realized that we had our hands full, for the cattle had scattered everywhere and it required two days to get them back together again. As we went through the country, it kept us busy looking out for Indians and buffalo. One man was always sent ahead to keep the buffaloes out of the herd and scout for Indians, for they were very savage at this time and we never knew when they would attack us. We landed in Wichita, Kansas, some time near the middle of July without serious mishaps or the loss of very many cattle.

I decided I would take it easier coming back, so bought a wagon and left Wichita the middle of August. I came


down through Arkansas and the edge of Missouri and landed at home the 20th of September with five head of horses.

As I was only eighteen years old, my father thought I was too young for such a strenuous life and persuaded me to farm a few years before returning to the trail, but I did not like farming and after two years' trial of it, I was more than ready to go back to the wild, care-free life of a cowboy. In 1875 I went to work for J. W. Montgomery, better known among the cowmen as "Black Bill." He moved his cattle to Lampasas County and I worked for him three years, 1875, 1876 and 1877. I returned home then and worked on a ranch until the spring of 1881, when I went to work for W. H. Jennings and John R. Blocker. I bought cattle over Caldwell County until the first of April.

We left the ranch near the San Marcos River on the first day of "April for Kansas. We landed at the Blocker ranch in five days and received twenty-eight head of outlaw horses. Blocker and Jennings always took several herds up the trail at the same time. On this trip they bought 200 head of Spanish horses from someone on the Rio Grande. Bob Jennings, the boss of our herd, and I, were sent after this bunch of horses. They were the worst horses we ever handled. We had lots of fun and lots of falls trying to ride them. It was "Ab and Jenks Blocker's job to rope, down and put shoes on them, and let me tell you it was a worse job than some ladies have in trying to put a No. 3 shoe on a No. 5 foot.

We made our way to Taylor, Texas, and received 300 head of steers. It was then the 18th day of April and it required several days to put the road brand on this bunch before we were ready for the long, long trail. The boys had a rough time, but we certainly had lots of fun. Nothing ever happened that we didn't get a good laugh out of it. We had one "greener" with us on this trip and we never missed a chance to play a prank on him.


His name was Joe Hullum. Cal Tuttle, Charlie Roberts and I all knew him well and, of course, delighted in teasing him. When we reached Lampasas County we told him we were getting into a country where the Indians were very bad and that they didn't mind wearing a few scalps on their belts. He pretended not to care, but before we had gone very much further he bid us farewell, saying that he didn't care anything about being buried on the lone prairie for the wild coyotes to howl over his grave and, besides he was getting too far away from "dear old Caldwell County." He bade us good luck and the last we saw of him he was taking the newly traveled end of the trail, and he wasn't slow about it, either.

For the next few days everything went on fine, the weather was fair, the cattle were quiet, .and we began to say to each other : "Cattle driving is just about the easiest job I know of," but, alas, peace never lasted long on the cattle trail. I don't remember just where we struck the Western Chisholm Trail, but as we neared Little River we had a terrible storm and rain. The cattle became frightened and pulled off a big show. It took us three days to get them all together again, and when we reached the river we had to swim the cattle. They were restless and unruly and it took us two days to get them all across. We had a fellow by the name of Rufe Fuller taking care of the horses, and in crossing the river he drowned the horse he was riding and one of the bunch he was driving. We made pontoons and fastened them to our wagons to float them across. We made good time after that until we reached Pease River, but here we had a big stampede and had to lay over two days to gather up our cattle. The country was lined with antelope and prairie dogs and we found great sport killing them.

We crossed the Red River into the Indian Territory at Doan's Store, and here we struck the Indians by the thousands. We kept our eyes open and managed to keep


peace by giving them a beef every day. They would come to us fifty and one hundred at a time. Some would ride with us all day and they always asked for a cow, which they called "Wahaw," Wahaw," and, of course, we acted like we were glad to give it to them, but we were not very badly frightened. We all had our guns and knew how to use them if we got in a tight. As we went through this part of the country we had great sport roping buffalo and elk. You could look across the prairie and .see hundreds of them in droves.

J. R. Blocker and W. H. Jennings overtook us at Bitter Creek. They were to deliver the cattle at Mobeetie, a little town in the Panhandle. I quit the herd at Bitter Creek. Mr. Blocker sent Will Sears and I on to overtake Givings Lane, one of Blocker & Jennings' bosses. We overtook Mr. Lane in three days at Bluff Creek, and while camped there we had a big rainstorm, which put the creek up and caused a big stampede among our cattle. We stayed with Mr. Lane until he got the cattle rounded up and across the creek, when we decided to go to La Junta, Colorado. I had a cousin there running a ranch for J. J. Jones. We left Dodge City the first of August and traveled up the Arkansas River horseback. We reached the Jones ranch on the fifth of August. I rested one day and went to work. J. J. Jones was at that time the biggest cattleman in Colorado, so you may guess that we had lots of work to do. I worked here until the first of December, and as it was getting very cold up there by that time, and we were having some heavy snowfalls, I decided I would strike for a warmer climate, and back to Texas I came.

I hired to M. A. Withers on April the first, 1882, and struck the trail again. He sent several herds this time and I went with a bunch under Gus Withers. We had lots of hard work and plenty of bad horses to ride. They were the worst bunch I ever saw with the exception of the Blocker bunch. The stampedes were so numerous


that I could not keep track of them, but we had a well-trained bunch of men and lost no cattle, but had to work hard and sleep with one eye open.

There was so much rain and the cattle were so restless, we never knew what to expect. Lots of times I never pulled off my boots for three days and nights. After one of these strenuous times, we would lay over some place and rest for a few days. We would have lots of fun trying to prove who was the best rider, but oftentimes the horse would prove that he was on to his job better than any of us.

At Pease River we had a big stampede and would have lost a great many cattle if we had not been near Millet's Ranch. Millet worked only desperadoes on this ranch, but they were all good cattlemen and came nobly to our rescue. We ran across one boy in that crowd from Caldwell County. He had decided quite a while ago that Caldwell County was getting too warm for him and his cattle rustling and had struck for a cooler climate. It seemed awfully good to us to see anyone from home, even a cattle rustler. He enjoyed our stay very much, as he learned of lots that had happened at home since he left. We rested here a few days and struck out again.

We crossed the Red River at Doan's Store and there we found a large number of Indians camped, but they were peaceable, for they were fast finding out that it didn't pay to molest cattle drivers. M. A. Withers overtook us here and sent Gus Withers on with his herd, which was going to Dodge, while he went ahead to get Mr. Johnson, who had bought these cattle for an English syndicate, to come to Mobeetie to receive our herd. He put Tom Hawker over us and also changed my brother, Cal Polk, to our bunch, which pleased me very much. We had been separated for quite a while and had lots to tell each other.

After leaving Doan's Store we traveled up Bitter


Creek for forty or fifty miles and then turned west to Mobeetie, when we turned our herd over to John Hargroves to hold on the L. X. Ranch until fall, as we could not take them on to Tuscosa until after frost on account of a quarantine they had on at that time.

"After Mr. Johnson received our bunch he and M. A. Withers returned to Dodge to receive the herd he had sent there. "After reaching Dodge and counting the cattle, Mr. Johnson was struck and killed by lightning while returning to camp. Mr. Withers was knocked from his horse, but wasn't hurt further than receiving a bad fall and shock.

About the first of October, the boss and I had a row and I decided I was ready for the back trail. I took the buckboard for Dodge, which was about 300 miles from Mobeetie. On reaching Dodge, I bought a ticket for San Antonio. On my way home I reviewed my past life as a cowboy from every angle and came to the conclusion that about all I had gained was experience, and I could not turn that into cash, so I decided I had enough of it, and made up my mind to go home, get married and settle down to farming.


By W. B. Hardeman of Devine, Texas

I was just a farmer boy, started to church at Prairie Lea one Sunday, met Tom Baylor (he having written me a note several days before, asking if I wanted to go up the trail) and the first thing he said was, "Well, are you going?" I said, "Yes," so he said, "Well, you have no time to go to church." So we went back to my house, got dinner and started to the "chuck wagon and remuda," which was camped some six miles ahead. There


I was, with a white shirt, collar and cravat, starting on the trail. You can imagine just how green I was.

We put the herd up below Bryan. We were gone seven months, so I had plenty


of time to learn a few things in regard to driving cattle. We were a month putting up the herd. I was always left to hold the cattle, and when we finally drove out of the timber and reached the prairie, the grass was ten inches in height, green as a wheat field and the cattle were poor and hungry, so went to chopping that grass as though they were paid. There was a nice little shade tree right near, so I got off my horse to sit in the shade for a few minutes and watch the cattle. The first thing I knew Tom Baylor was waking me. I thought, "Well, I have gone to sleep on guard. I had just as well put my hand in Colonel Ellison's pocket and take his money." I never got off of my horse any more when on duty, though I have seen the time when I would have given five dollars for one-half hour's sleep. I would even put tobacco in my eyes to keep awake. Our regular work was near eighteen hours a day, and twenty-four if a bad night, then the next day, just as though we had slept all night, and most of us getting only $30.00 per month and grub, bad weather making from twenty-four to forty-eight hours, never thinking of "time and overtime," or calling for shorter hours and more pay.

In Kansas one day for dinner we bought some pies, eggs and milk from a granger. He informed Baylor that a certain section of land that had a furrow plowed around it, did not belong to his neighbor, but was railroad land


and the number was 115. When I came to dinner Baylor told me about the section. He also told me we would not strike any more water that evening. This creek on Section 115 had fine water, and he asked me if I thought best to water there. I said, " Yes," knowing I had to herd that afternoon. Ham Bee protested, and said we should not treat that old man that way, but Ham did not have to hold the herd that evening, so I insisted, and Baylor said, "Get your dinner and fresh horses, I will start to the water." The old man lived in a dug-out on the side of a hill where he could see everything, so when he saw the cattle cross that furrow he came out with a shotgun, rolling up his sleeves, waving his arms and shouting, "Take those cattle off my land or I will have every damn one of you arrested." Baylor, being in the lead, came in contact with him first. He said, '''Old man, there must be a mistake; we have some fat cattle and the agent of the railroad (some four miles to the depot) said he had no stock cars and for us to throw the cattle on Section 115." Well, sir, you should have heard that old man curse that (innocent) agent, as well as the country in general, stating he had moved his family out there, the drouth came and it looked like starvation, so he was trying to save that little grass for winter. Baylor compromised by telling him he had a family and knew how it was, and would be willing to water on one-half of the section and would give him a dogie calf that had got into the herd several days before and we did not want it. The old man got in a fine humor, had us to send the wagon by the house to get a barrel of spring water—that was the kind of a neighbor the old man had.

While in the Indian Territory one day at noon, about a dozen head of range cattle got in the herd. We did not discover them until we threw the herd back on the trail, so we had to cut them out and run them back some three miles. Some time during the night they trailed us up and came into the herd, and we did not discover it until we


were out of that range. After we got up into Kansas I saw two men riding around the herd with Baylor and when he left them he came to me and said, "Bud, those men are butchers, and said they would give us $300.00 for those range cattle and do not want a bill of sale." I said, "Tell them the cattle are not ours, so we can't do that ; we will turn them over to Colonel Ellison and he can find the owner," and we took them on. We delivered that herd at Ogallala, Nebraska, took another from there to the Bell Fourche in Wyoming —a 60-mile drive without water for the cattle. We were just twelve miles from the buffalo. By the time we branded out the herd we were short of grub, so did not go buffalo hunting, and right there I lost my only chance to kill buffalo. We were five hundred miles from a railroad, but I wish I had gone anyway.

Tom P. Baylor was a son of General John R. Baylor. He died some twenty-one years ago. He was as fine a man as I ever knew. Ham P. Bee is now in San Antonio, express messenger on a railroad.

In 1883 I went on the trail with W. T. Jackman of San Marcos. We started the herd from Colorado County at "Ranches Grande," owned by Stafford Brothers. While in the Indian Territory one evening two Indians ate supper with us. I was holding the herd while first relief was at supper. Dan, a fifteen-year-old boy, was holding the "remuda " (saddle horses). We really had two herds with one wagon, had three thousand cattle, four hundred horses and one hundred saddle horses, fifteen men in all, and only three six-shooters in the outfit. Just as I went to eat my supper and the horse herders were going to relieve Dan, we heard him give a distress yell and shoot several times. Jackman and Lee Wolfington mounted their horses, drew their guns and started in a run for Dan. That was one time I wished for a gun. Twelve men and nothing to defend ourselves with. So you know I was like the little negro, "Not scared, just a


little frightened," knowing four hundred Indians were in camp, just three miles away. Those two Indians that had eaten supper with us had mounted their horses and ostensibly started for their camp, but slipped around and drove off two saddle ponies. Dan discovered them by skylight, hence the alarm. Jackman and Wolfington followed them and recovered the horses, but did not see the two Indians. W. T. Jackman is postmaster at San Marcos. He was sheriff there for twenty years, and as good as Texas ever had.

In 1886 I went with J. C. Robertson. We drove for Blocker, Davis & Driscoll. They drove forty thousand head of cattle, and had fourteen hundred horses. We started for Uvalde, went up the East Fork of the Nueces River, the roughest trail I ever went. We could not see all of the cattle, only at bedding time. When nearing the Territory one evening, a young man and young lady came galloping by us. The girl was well mounted, and had on a handsome riding habit. We had not seen a woman for months, so we were all charmed and thought she was the most beautiful object we had ever beheld. All wanted to see more of her. Joe Robertson being the boss, found out we would pass near where the family lived the next evening and there was a fine spring of water where they lived, so that noon he had me to trim his hair and whiskers, his intention being to take the chuck wagon by to get a barrel of spring water. Of course we all knew it was just an excuse to get to see that pretty girl once more. Sandy Buckalew called out to me to "fix the boss right," and I did my best. Sandy was pointing the herd and had a chance to pass right near the house before Robertson could get up there, so he galloped over to the house to get a drink of water. The old mother, who was a. very kind and nice lady, brought him some water. He thanked her and began to brag on the beautiful country, to all of which she agreed, but deplored the fact that there was no school. Sandy


saw his chance and said, "Well, that can be arranged, I think, as our boss is married and his wife is a splendid school teacher, and he is well pleased with the country, so I feel confident that you will have no trouble in having him to locate here. He will be by to get a barrel of water and you can mention it to him." You can imagine how the boss felt when the good mother did all the entertaining all the time, urging him to bring his fine little wife and teach their school. I don't think he even got a glimpse of the girl. We had lots of fun out of it, anyway, though none of us ever laid eyes on that most beautiful woman again. Joe has never married, but has more children to look after than any of us, as he has charge of the San Pedro Springs Park in San "Antonio and looks after the children there, and a better man can't be found. In the final roundup, may we all meet again


By C. W. Ackermann of San Antonio

I was born in the year 1855 on the Salado Creek four miles east of San Antonio, Bexar County, Texas.

My first adventure I can remember was when I was six years old. One day my brother, ten years old, asked me to go with him to hunt some cows. We both rode on one horse. After we had ridden for several miles we found a cow with a young calf. My brother told me to stay with that cow while he hunted others, then he would return for me. While he was gone the cow and calf rambled off and I got lost from them in the high grass. I kept on hunting the cow and in the meantime my brother returned for me, but could not find me. After


hunting for me a while he concluded I had followed the cow home, so he went on home.


My parents immediately began to search for me.

In the meantime I kept on walking in the direction the cow went, believing I was going home, till night came. The wolves began to howl and scared me so I climbed up a little tree, where I remained till they stopped howling. Then I crawled down and slept soundly under the tree till the sun woke me up. I got up and started off again. I walked all day with nothing to eat but chaparral berries and I was fortunate enough to find a small pool of water that afternoon. By night I had not reached home, so I made my bed under a tree as I had done the night before.

That night there was a big thunderstorm and rain. I was completely drenched. But my courage never failed, so in the morning bright and early I started out.

I heard some roosters crowing, so I went in that direction, thinking I had at last found home. But, to my disappointment, it was only a Mexican house. The dogs began to chase me, but the old man called them back, then took me in his house where they were just ready to eat breakfast.

I was scared almost lifeless, for I could neither speak nor understand Spanish. I could picture them roasting me for dinner and all kinds of horrible things they might do with me. Nevertheless, I greedily drank the cup of coffee and ate the piece of bread they gave me and asked for more, because I was almost starved, but they would not give me any more.


Immediately after breakfast the old "hombre" saddled his horse, tied a rope around me and put me behind him on his horse. Then he rode to an American family and got a written note from the white man that he (the Mexican) had not kidnaped me, but was taking me home.

The old Mexican took me on home and received a generous reward from my father.

Afterward I learned that I had roamed to Chipadares, a distance of about twenty miles from my home. At that time that was the nearest settlement southeast of home.

During the Civil War I was just a mere boy of nine years. Nevertheless, I recall some thrilling adventures.

My father was exempted from the army on account of owning a flour mill. This mill was located on the San Antonio River about sixteen miles from our farm. Father had to run the mill himself, so he and mother moved there and left my older brother, 13 years old, and I at the farm to take care of the stock and everything.

One day while I was alone the Confederate soldiers came around gathering up horses. They threatened to take mine and had me scared to death. I begged bard for my horse and I told them that I needed him to get supplies with. After frightening me real good they told me I could keep my horse. I was the only one they left with a horse around that neighborhood.

The schools in those days were very much different to the schools of today. We only had private schools and these lasted the entire year. Our only vacation was two weeks in August.

The only subjects they taught were reading, writing, arithmetic, spelling, history, geography and grammar. On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday we studied reading, writing, spelling and arithmetic. On Thursday and Friday we had history, grammar and geography.

I started to school when I was eleven years old and attended three years. After that I was sent to San Antonio, where I studied surveying.


When I was a boy, rounding up cattle was a very exciting event. In those days people did not have their pastures fenced, so the cattle often wandered many miles from home.

About the beginning of spring we would start on the round-up. Three or four neighborhoods would send out ten to fifteen men together. Out of these one man was selected as captain. I was just fourteen years old when I went out on my first round-up. My father put me in the care of our captain and from him I learned how to rope and brand cattle and many other important things one should know about round-ups.

I often roped and branded as many as eight or ten calves by myself in a day. Branding was not a very easy task, either, for we had to run the brand. We had no ready-made brands as now. Many times we had to gather the wilder cattle at night. When they went out on the prairie we would sneak a tame bunch of cattle in with them and thus drive them in a corral. Sometimes we would build a stockade around water holes, leaving only one opening for the cattle to get in. Even with such a trap we were often unable to hold the wildest ones in.

Licenses permitting one to carry arms was unheard of in my earlier days. Every man always carried his "six-shooter" buckled to his side. This was necessary on account of there being so many robbers. There were about forty or more highway robbers scattered over the country in squads of 5 or 6 men.

I remember one time as three of the other boys and myself were coming from the market in San "Antonio we were waylaid by some robbers. Fortunately we spied them in time and each of us galloped off in different directions. They fired at us, but we all escaped unharmed.

When I was sixteen years old I had a little experience with horse thieves.

My father noticed a suspicious looking man riding


around our place one day, so he told us boys we had better watch the horses. My brother and I went out to guard the horses that night and just about midnight the thieves came in two or three different squads. How many there were we never knew. We watched them give signals to each other with the fire of their cigarettes. Then we fired at them and scared them away. We hit one of them, but never knew if we killed him or not. After that we were never bothered with horse thieves.

The robbers were certainly skillful. I recall one day when my brother and I were out on a hunt, we laid down to rest. We used our saddles for pillows and put our belts and "six-shooters" under them. And while we were resting someone sneaked up and stole my belt and "six-shooter" right from under my head. I suppose whoever it was thought I had money in the little money pouch on my belt, but they sure got fooled.

In 1872 we were not allowed so much liberty. A law was passed which prohibited men from carrying concealed arms.

In 1874 horse thieves and highway robbers were so bad something had to be done. The ranchmen formed an organization known as the "Stock Association" to rid the country of these marauders. I was one of the fifty deputies elected. After a year's time we had Bexar County clear of robbers.

My first trip up the old cow trail to Kansas was in the year 1873, when I was just a boy of eighteen. My father decided to take some of his cattle to the Kansas market, as they sold so cheap here. "At that time one thousand-pound beeves sold in San Antonio for $8.00 per head and in Wichita, Kansas, for $23.80 per head.

Father asked a bunch of young cowboys if they thought they could take his cattle to Kansas. As we were all young fellows, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, eager for adventure, we willingly consented. So on the first day of February we began gathering our


cattle and finished rounding up a herd on March 14th. Early next morning we started on our journey. We traveled all day and that night made our first camping place where Converse, Bexar County, now stands, but at that time it was only an open country.

That first night was one never to be forgotten. It rained all night long and our cattle stampeded eighteen times. During one stampede they ran into one of our men. His horse was run over by the cattle and crippled, while the man was carried off about a fourth of a mile on top of the cattle. He escaped with only a few bruises. We were lucky not to lose any cattle that night, but fifteen head were crippled.

The next morning we bought a two-wheeled cart to carry our bedding and provisions in. Then, with a yoke of oxen hitched to it, we began our journey again and made our next stop on the Santa Clara, where now stands the little town, Marion. That night there was an electric storm which was followed by cold weather and frost. "After a few days' rest we resumed our trail. When we reached the Guadalupe River it was up about six feet. Our cattle had to swim across and our cart was taken on a ferryboat.

At our next camping place we had another stampede and lost thirty-five head of cattle, which we never found.

When we reached the Colorado River it also was up about four feet. After swimming that we kept on the trail to Round Rock, where our yoke of oxen was stolen, so we had to rope and hitch two wild steers to the cart. When we reached Fort Worth, at that time a small town of one hundred inhabitants, we sold our cart and bought a wagon and team of horses.

It was a very rainy year and every river we came to was up ; however, we crossed them all without loss. When we reached Washita River, in Indian Territory, we had to stay there eight days on account of heavy rains. There I had my hardest time of the trip. For


six nights I slept only about one and a half hours and never pulled off my slicker .and boots.

Upon reaching the Canadian River we found that so high we could not cross for two days.

Our next stop was on Bluff Creek, on the line of Kansas. There one of our men, Joe Menges, roped a buffalo calf which we carried with us to Wichita and sold it to "Buffalo Joe," who was running a beer garden for the amusement of the trail men.

We camped on the river called Ninnesquaw for three months in order to fatten our cattle for the market. Then my father came to Kansas by train and sold them.

On the seventh of September we began our return trip, bringing with us forty-five head of saddle ponies. It took us twenty-seven days to make the return trip to San Antonio. Only five of us made the return trip, Hartmann, Eisenhauer, Markwardt, Smith, and myself.

On my journey I saw many buffalo, but killed only one great big one. I also killed seven antelopes.

One morning while I was eating breakfast one of the boys came running up and said, "Chris, come on quick, buffalo ran in the herd and they have stampeded." I jumped on my horse and went with him. The first thing I saw was one of the boys, Philip Prinz, galloping after some buffaloes trying to rope one. When he spied me he came and asked me for my horse. I would not give it to him and told him to let the buffalo alone if he didn't want to get killed. He got a little sore at me, but we rode on back to camp together.

I think we were the. youngest bunch of trailmen on the "Trail" that year. The oldest man, "Ad. Markwardt, our cook, was only twenty-five years old, and the rest were between eighteen and twenty-two years. Those that rode the "Trail" with me were Alf. Hartmann, Steve Wooler, Joe Menges, Phil Prinz, Louis Eisenhauer, Ad Markwardt, Henry Smith, a negro, and my brother, Fred.


Besides making trips over the "Trail" to Kansas, I often made trips to the coast.

Years ago there were no trains we could ship our cattle on as nowadays. Whenever we wanted to take cattle to the seaport we had to drive them. We usually drove them in herds of about two hundred head.

In the spring of the year we usually began rounding up our cattle, as the beef buyers usually came in the early fall. Our captain would give us orders for the trip, then we would start out, each man with his pack-horse and two saddle horses.

There were large stock pens scattered over the country. We would each go in different directions and all meet at one of the pens. At night when we went into camp we would hobble our tamest horses with buckskin hobbles and staked the wilder ones. We hung our "grub" up in a tree so nothing could bother it.

"After we had all the cattle together we would start for home. "As we came near to each man's house he would cut his cattle out of the herd.

Then came the beef buyer. "After he bought as many as he wanted he would get ready for the drive to the seaport. I helped him out many times just to take the trip.

We would often lose cattle on these trips, for they would stampede and, of course, we seldom found those that got lost. At one of our camping places an Irishman had built a pen on rollers. When the cattle stampeded in that pen there was no danger of losing any. When they would run the pen went right with them. It was often carried as far as fifty yards.

In the year 1874 I had another very thrilling experience. On account of such a dry year my father decided to move to a different location. He did not know where to go, so he gave me the job of hunting a suitable place.

In August of that year I started out with two saddle horses and one pack horse. I went in a northwestern


direction, then turned toward the Concho country. I went as far as the New Mexico boundary line, then started back home.

The country I traveled through was very wild. There were just a few small settlements scattered here and there and the people even seemed uncivilizd.

I saw antelope and buffalo by the thousands. It was that year the government was trying to kill out the buffalo. I passed many mule teams loaded with buffalo hides. Even though the country was wild I found some excellent locations for a ranch, especially in the Concho country.

When I returned home and told father about the wild country and people he decided not to move so far away. So he bought a ranch close to where now stands Wetmore. Later he gave me this ranch. I moved up there in 1877 and lived a bachelor's life till I married Emma Bueche in 1882.

We lived on that same ranch until 1905. Then I bought a small farm of 500 acres at Fratt, about nine miles from San Antonio, and left one of my sons in charge of the ranch.

I am now living a quiet, peaceful life on my farm. Every time I go up to my ranch memories of those old wild, happy days come back to me.

Now I am 65 years old and have a clear record of never being arrested and never was involved in any kind of lawsuit.


By Louis Schorp of Rio Medina, Texas

In the spring of 1873 John Vance, a merchant of Castroville, decided to drive a herd of cattle up the Kansas Trail. In company with my neighbors I helped to round


up and deliver steers to Mr. Vance, this being my first work along this line. Bladen Mitchell, a pioneer of


Bandera County, was engaged by Mr. Vance as trail boss. All of the cattle were received by Mr. Mitchell and driven to Bandera County, to a point about two miles north of the Mormon Camp, where Mr. Mitchell had his herding pens, and what was known as the Mitchell Crossing. This property was purchased during the early eighties by the firm of Schorp & Spettel, but at the present time it is entirely covered by the Medina Lake, a vast body of water impounded by a great concrete dam. After delivering my bunch of steers I went over to Elm Creek, a tributary to the Medina River, where I found a crowd rounding up cattle for Perryman & Lytle, among whom were the Spettel, Habys and Wurzbachs. The following day five men out of this crowd, including myself, were going to Bandera to see the Vance cattle inspected and road branded, As we were getting ready to start the steers became frightened and stampeded. I was the only one horseback, and one of the men yelled to me to "turn the leaders toward the bluff and mill them." I did not understand the meaning of this, for I had never seen a stampede before. I knew how to turn the crank of a coffee-mill, but when it was necessary to "mill" a bunch of outlaw steers I did not know where to look for the crank. I turned the lead cattle from running into camp and crowded them against the bluff, but they did not mill, and when I looked back I saw that most of the cattle had turned behind me. By this time all of the men in camp


were on their horses and it took about an hour to get all of the cattle together again. Every steer had his tongue out, and an ox tongue never looked so cheap to me before or after.

The next day I went with the boys to take the herd out to graze, and when several miles southwest of Bandera one of the men pointed to a large live oak tree and said six men were hung to its branches during the Civil War by Confederate soldiers. The next day the cattle were inspected by a man named Pue. During the inspection a dispute arose about a certain steer belonging to a Frenchman named Cordier at Castroville. I had delivered this steer to Mr. Mitchell, and knew it by the flesh marks, and it was branded R I, but the party calling the brand called it B I. The inspector asked for water with which to dampen the brand and, finding the bucket empty, he took out a bottle of whiskey, wet the brand with the liquor, smoothed the hairs, and the brand showed R I very plainly. Thus twelve dollars were saved for the old Frenchman.

I rounded up steers every spring thereafter and delivered most of them to Lytle & McDaniels of Medina County.

During the year 1874, while riding over the range one day looking after stock, I noticed a cow running about and bellowing and rode over to see what was the matter with her. I found she had a very young calf by her side and three wolves were trying to get the calf. I chased the wolves away and drove the cow toward shelter. The calf had been wounded, and had I not happened along when I did the wolves would have killed it I am sure. I have been on the range more or less since 1870 and this is the only time that I ever saw wolves attack a calf.

During the winter of 1878 and 1879 grass in the Medina Valley was very short and many of the stockmen lost heavily. My father at this time owned about


five hundred cattle, and I remember that I skinned seventy head of father's cattle that winter. In the fall of 1879 I moved the remainder of our cattle to San Miguel, in Frio County, to where the Keystone pasture is now located. In the spring of 1880 I purchased all of the stock belonged to my father. I sold the steers to John Lytle and delivered them to him in the Forks Pasture at the mouth of the Hondo. This was the last bunch of steers I sold and delivered to go up the trail.

In the fall of 1882 the land in this particular part of Frio County where I ranched was purchased by a company from Muscatine, Iowa, known as the Hawkeye Land & Cattle Company. I sold all my land and stock to this company and moved back to Medina County, where I have resided ever since.

In the spring of 1884 I formed a partnership with Ed Kaufman, who now resides in San Antonio, and we drove a herd of horses to Pueblo, Colorado. In the outfit were George Gerdes, now with the Schweers-Kern Commission Company; John Saathoff of Hondo, Eames Saathoff of New Fountain, and a cook whose name I have forgotten.


By John Wells of Bartlett, Texas

I was born in Gordon County, Georgia, July 19, 1859. My father died when I was three years old. I left home in July when only ten years of age, and from that time on earned my way. The family moved to Texas in 1866 and in the winter of 1867 to Bell County. First started on the trail when I was 23 years of age with thirteen men, including boss, cook and horse rustler. Worked for Hudson, Watson & Co. in spring of 1883. Gathered about eight thousand cattle from Lampasas, Burnet, Llano,


 ALEX WEBB J. L. WELLS  South Dakota Actual Photo Taken
                            on the Trail


Williamson, Gillespie and San Saba Counties. The company sold three thousand cattle to Bob Johns and two thousand cattle to Bill Shadley, also eighty-five horses, chuck wagon and trail outfit, drove them to Taylor and shipped to Wichita Falls. Alex Webb and I were sent to San Antonio to receive and bring two thousand cattle and twenty-four horses to Wichita Falls. This bunch was then unloaded and thrown with the Burnet County herd, making a total of about four thousand cattle and one hundred and fifteen horses. The cattle ranged from one-year-olds to seven. We held them fifteen miles from the town between Wichita and Red River for a rest period of ten days to fit them for the trail. While crossing at the mouth of Pease River we had ten steers to bog in the quicksand, and after digging them out we threw the herd on the prairie and camped for the night. The boys were all thirsty, having nothing to drink but gyp and alkali water. I saw a settlement down the draw, a mile away, and went down and asked the people for a drink of water. They told me to ride to the spring, where I would find a cup and help myself. I went and found a bubbling spring as clear as crystal, which on tasting was gyp water too. So I went to the house and asked if they had some buttermilk they would sell. They sold me about two gallons for fifty cents. I took it back to the herd and I and four other boys drank it. We were very glad to get our thirst quenched. The next evening we camped near Doan's Store and there we saw our first Comanche braves. The next day the range men cut the herd. We crossed the South Fork of Red River that evening where thirteen steers bogged and had to be dug out. One steer was bogged and I and Henry Miller, the boss, went to dig him out. The boss hobbled his horse. I told him he had better hitch to the horn of my saddle, as the steer might catch him before he could unhobble his horse. I hitched my horse to his saddle, but, being boss, I guess he thought he needed no advice. He had the spade in


his hand and we walked down and dug out some sand from the animal. The steer began to lunge and I thought he was going to get out, and so I got my horse in between the steer and my boss in time to keep him from being run over by the steer.

We continued up Red River for four or five days' drive. Had plenty of grass and a good supply of fresh lakes of water until we came to Wichita Mountains, where we crossed the North Fork of Red River. There we found Quanah Parker and his friend waiting for us. He wanted a yearling donated, and said, "Me squaw heap hungry." After the boss. and five of the boys had gone to dinner I and four of the others were left on herd. I rode around the herd to where I came up to Quanah Parker and his friend. Quanah was dressed like a white man. His friend wore breech clout and hunting skirt with a Winchester to his saddle. Quanah had on a hat and pants with a six-shooter in cowboy style. I made friends with Quanah, but I didn't like the looks of his friend. When the boss returned to the herd after dinner he gave Quanah a yearling and by that time four or five other warriors had appeared. They drove the yearling to their camp.

We passed through a gap of the Wichita Mountains and camped on the east side of the trail. After we had bedded our cattle and eaten our supper we saw a prairie fire in the foothills on the west side of the trail. The first relief was on herd. The boss was afraid the fire might cross the trail and burn out over camp or cause a stampede, so he called the boys up and told them to get their horses and named two to go to the herd, the remainder to go with him. Alex Webb was to go to the herd, but the cook asked Webb if he was going to leave his six-shooter with him. Webb told him no, he needed it. But Cook says, "By Jacks, when it begins to thunder and lightning you fill 'this wagon full of six-shooters, but when the Indians are around the guns are all gone, and


who is going to protect me?"' The men rode far enough to find out that there was no danger of fire crossing the trail, then they returned to camp and all spent a peaceful night.

We saw no more of the Comanches and the next tribe was Kiowas, who were frequent visitors to the camp. There were seventeen for dinner one day. Three squaws sat down together, and two or three papooses went to looking for lice on each mother's head and eating them.

While passing through the Kiowa Indian country one of our men at "Alverson had a close brush with one of the warriors which might have resulted seriously had it not been that the boss was close at hand with his six-shooter. The Indian, after being forced to put up his Winchester, ran into the herd and killed two steers before he stopped.

I was riding with the herd in the Cheyenne country when a brave asked for a cartridge from my belt. I told him my cartridges were forty-fives and his gun was a forty-four. He made signs to show me how he would reload it, and I had to give him one. Then he wanted to run a race. Our horses were not at all matched, mine being far superior, but I managed to hold him in for a short distance alongside the herd, so the brave could join. The Indian parted with me saying, "Me heap hungry." I told him to come to Po Campo at night. He came, bringing three friends, one of them a youngster from college, out in full war paint, breech clout and hunting shirt. He traded quirts with Jim Odell, giving him a dollar to boot. The Indian wanted the quirt to ride races with. "About that time Frank Haddocks rode up and was mistaken by a two-hundred-pound warrior for one of their tribe. He began talking to Frank in Cheyenne, at the same time advancing for a friendly bout. The college Indian, acting as interpreter, called him aside and told him that a family in their tribe had lost a baby years before and they believed Frank was this child. They


concluded then that Frank had been stolen from the Kiowas and that white people had stolen him before he learned to talk. Nothing seemed to shake their belief that he was an Indian. They urged him to go to their camp. Frank asked me to go with him and I believe he would have gone had I consented.

While we were at supper the Indians were sitting on piles of bedding which the cook had thrown from the chuck wagon. One of the boys said, "Those damned Indians will put lice on our beds." The cook heard this and, angry at having extra company, said, "I'll get the fireshovel and get them off." The young Indian of course understood, and at a word from him they moved and sat on the grass nearby. Early next morning the Indian who supposed himself to be F'rank's brother, came and for an hour or more tried to persuade him to come and live with them. Frank asked me again to go along, and finally refused, when he saw I couldn't be persuaded. Looking back I can see we might both have been benefited by staying.

We reached Dodge City, Kansas, about six weeks after leaving Wichita Falls. There the boss bought provisions and after crossing the Arkansas River threw the cattle out on the tableland and camped for the night. One incident broke into the regular trail life between this place and Buffalo which it might be well to relate. A Kansas jayhawker had been in the habit of exacting toll from the herds crossing his land at Shawnee Creek. The boss, riding ahead, found out that he asked a cent apiece for the cattle, and decided to put one over on the gentleman. At noon the boss came back to us with instructions to get the cattle across as quickly as possible and not tell the Kansas man how many head we carried. To say about twenty-five hundred if he pressed us. The next morning the boss wrote a check for twenty-five dollars and proceeded at once to Buffalo, where he wired Bob Shadley, the owner, not to honor the check.


The trail led through Buffalo and on beside the grave of two of Sam Bass' men, Joel Collins and his partner, who were killed by officers at that place some years before.

Through Kansas and Nebraska we had good water, plenty of grass, and the cattle thrived. Reaching Ogallala our cook quit and his cloak fell on my shoulders as the only one of the bunch qualified to fill it. We crossed the South Platte River and hiked out up the North River about sixty miles, where we stopped to brand for nearly ten days. We proceeded to Sydney Bridge and crossed below the Block House. From this place we took the right-hand trail and went to Fort Robertson on the White River, past the famous Crow Burke Mountain— through the Bad Lands of Dakota and crossed the Cheyenne River three miles below Hot Springs, at the foot of the Black Hills. We proceeded seventy-five or a hundred miles further to the Company Ranch on Driftwood Creek. Webb and Odell stayed at the ranch. The remainder went to Julesburg, Nebraska, with the provision wagon, where we bought tickets and came back to Texas.

Should any of my companions read this sketch I would be glad to have them write John Wells at Bartlett, Texas, or better known on the range as John Arlington.


By S. H. Woods of Alice, Texas

I was born in Sherman, Grayson County, Texas, January 29th, 1865, and left home in Sherman in the spring of 1881, when a lad sixteen years of age, and worked for Suggs Brothers on the IS ranch, near the mouth of Beaver Creek, in the Chicksaw Nation, about 25 miles north of Montague, in Montague County, Texas.


In the month of July, 1881, we left the IS ranch for Wyoming with about 3,000 head of Southern steer yearlings. I was second boss— the horse rustler. We started from the Monument Hills, about 15 miles north of Red River Station on the old Chisholm Trail, which was known


at that time as the Eastern Trail. About the third night out the Indians stampeded our herd at the head of Wild Horse Creek, which delayed us for a few days. Leaving this point, we had fine weather and moved along rapidly until we left the Eastern Trail at Red Fork Ranch, on the Cimarron River, to intersect the Western Trail. Here we had some trouble, but nothing serious. When we arrived within eight or ten miles of Dodge City, Kansas, a beautiful city, situated on the north bank of the Arkansas River and about one month's drive from Red River, we could see about fifty different trail herds grazing up and down the valley of the Arkansas River. That night we had a terrible storm. Talk about thunder and lightning I There is where you could see phosphorescence (fox fire) on our horse's ears and smell sulphur. We saw the storm approaching and every man, including the rustler, was out on duty. About 10 o'clock at night we were greeted with a terribly loud clap of thunder and a flash of lightning which killed one of our lead steers just behind me. That started the ball rolling. Between the rumbling, roaring and rattling of hoofs, horns, thunder and lightning, it made an old cow-puncher long for headquarters or to be in his line camp in some dug-out on the banks of some little stream. After the first break we


were unable to control the cattle longer, for just as soon as we could get them quiet, some other herd would run into us and give us a fresh start. Finally so many herds had run together that it was impossible to tell our cattle from others. When lightning flashed we could see thousands of cattle and hundreds of men all over the prairie, so we turned everything loose and waited patiently for daybreak. The next morning all the different outfits got together and we had a general round-up. It took about a week to get everything all straightened out and trim up the herds. We then crossed the "Arkansas River just above Dodge City and traveled northwest across the State of Kansas and struck North Platte River at Ogallala, Nebraska. Following the North Platte River, we passed Chimney Rock, old Fort Fetterman and Fort Laramie and camped on the north bank of the North Platte River, where we rested one day grazing cattle, bathing and washing our saddle blankets. We then started on a four days' drive without water (about sixty miles) across the mountains from the North Platte River in Nebraska to Powder River in Wyoming. When we arrived on the divide or the backbone, between the two rivers, we passed along where a train of emigrants had been murdered by the Cheyenne Indians about two years before. For about the distance of half a mile the trail on both sides was strewn with oxen bones, irons and pieces of wagons where they had been burned, but did not see any human bones because I didn't take time to make a close examination. From the appearance of the surroundings there must have been twenty-five or thirty wagons and ox teams. We were told by old Indian fighters that there were 150 persons in the train, including the women and children, all murdered— none left to tell the tale.

By this time the cattle were getting dry. They had been two days without water, and these little Southern steers began to look like race horses. "All the men were


in front of the cattle except myself, the drag driver and the cook. Of course, we had to take good care of the grub wagon and cook. This was in the evening about 4 o 'clock, and we did not see the men nor the lead cattle until the next day about 5 o'clock in the evening. The boys reported that the lead cattle reached Powder River about 10 o'clock, while we did not arrive until about 5 o'clock. After resting two or three days we proceeded down Powder River to the mouth of Crazy Woman, a small stream that empties into Powder River, and then up Crazy Woman River to near the foot of the Big Horn Mountain to our Wyoming headquarters. It took us just exactly three months and twenty days to drive a herd of. Southern " dogies " from Red River and deliver them at the Wyoming ranch. We rested a few days while the Wyoming outfit gathered a beef herd for market and delivered it to us, and then we continued our northward drive with the beef herd to a station on the Northern Pacific Railroad called Glendive, on or near the Yellowstone River in Montana. When we loaded our cattle on the railroad for Chicago all the Texas outfit, numbering about twelve, took the cow trail for Texas by the way of Chicago.

Our first stop was at St. Paul, in Minnesota, to feed and water the cattle, and while the cattle were resting we all took the interurban street car for Minneapolis, about five miles from St. Paul, to see the Barnum & Bailey circus. We arrived at the circus, still wearing our trail garb, just a short time after the performance had begun. Of course we were feeling good by this time, and just as we entered the clown had his trick mule in the ring and was offering anyone $5.00 that could ride him. Twelve Texas cowboys fresh from the range, thought that was easy money, and all wanted to win the $5.00, so, we selected one of our party to earn the money. (He is now one of the wealthiest and most prominent stockmen of Texas, but I won't tell his name.) The clown


let out his mule and we let out our Texas cowboy. One of the boys had a pair of Texas spurs in his pocket and we fastened them on the boots of the party that was to pull off the Wild West stunt. The mule was blindfolded and our man got on, and when the word was given one of our boys pulled off the blindfold, halter and all, and left the two in the ring ready for business. The rider fastened his spurs in the mule's shoulders and struck him in the flank with his Texas hat and that started the performance. There were thousands of people in the audience to witness the stunt. The mule made two or three jumps and roared like a mountain lion and our rider yelled like a Comanche Indian ; the mule would pitch and roar, but our rider stuck to him like a postage stamp. As the rider could not be dismounted, the mule laid down on the ground and rolled over like a ball. Our rider stood by, and when the mule would get on his feet he would find our rider again on his back until, finally, the mule sulked and just stood in the middle of the ring with our rider still on him spurring and whipping him with his hat. The audience went wild and uncontrollable and the police had to interfere and pull our rider off the mule. The $5.00 was given the rider, and after the performance we returned to St. Paul, reloaded our cattle and continued our journey for Chicago, where we delivered them and left for Texas.

I stopped at Sherman and went to school that fall and winter and the next spring I returned to the IS ranch in the Indian Territory.

For six years I worked for Suggs Brothers during each spring and summer, returning in the late fall to Sherman, where I attended school during the winter months. After those six years spent on the trail and the range I returned to Sherman and attended one full term of school, after which I took up the study of law in the office of Woods & Brown, of Sherman, was admitted to the bar in the year 1888, then left for the West


to grow up with the country. I first located in Haskell, Haskell County, Texas, but in the spring of 1890 one of those blizzards struck me and I drifted south, and as there were no wire fences to stop me, I landed in Laredo, Webb County, Texas, on the Rio Grande River, where I remained a short time, then moved to San Diego, in Duval County, Texas, where I hung out my "shingle" and commenced the practice of law. In the spring of 1893 I was appointed county judge of Duval County, but in the spring of 1894 I resigned as county judge to accept the appointment of district attorney for the old 49th Judicial District of Texas (a warm district about that time), composed of the counties of Webb, Duval and Zapata. I received this appointment from the Hon. C. A. Culberson, then governor of Texas. I served as district attorney for one term and in 1896 I was again elected county judge of Duval County, which office I held continuously until August, 1915, when I resigned and moved to Alice in Jim Wells County, Texas, where I am now practicing law.


A history of the trail drivers of Texas would not be complete without a sketch of the career of Colonel Isaac Thomas Pryor, whose achievements during the past sixty years have been remarkable, to say the least. His life story reads like a romance, for it is made up of thrills and pathos, struggles and hardships, failures and triumphs that befell but few men who successfully overcame such obstacles that Colonel Pryor met and conquered. A pioneer of the early days of the unfenced range, he has become the most widely known cattleman of America, and his reminiscences, if ever written, would afford a complete panorama of the cattle industry of the United


States. From the early days of the grass trails, when the great herds of the Texas longhorns were driven thousands of miles to market, down to the present, with its bred cattle, its modern marketing system and rail transportation, he has been an active participant. "At all the various stages that mark this period of Texas' development his has been an important part. His has been the directing mind in determining many of those steps where the decision meant either the advancement or downfall of the live stock industry. At these times of peril he became the trusted leader, just as in the earlier days of his young manhood he was looked upon to lead and direct when brawn and courage were needed to assure right by might.

Born at Tampa, Florida, in 1852, the third child of three boys, the subject of this sketch was left fatherless in 1855 at the age of three years, through his father's death. Shortly after his father's death, Mrs. Pryor took her three boys to "Alabama, where two years later she passed away. She gave one each of the boys, ranging in age from five to nine years, to her three sisters. Ike, the last one, being with an uncle at Spring Hill, Tennessee.

At the age of nine years he ran away from the home of his relative and boldly struck out into the world for himself. He plunged at once into some of its most awesome and thrilling scenes. It was in the year 1861 with the Civil War just beginning its devastating reign. Into the midst of it he entered. Attaching himself as a newsboy to the "Army of the Cumberland, he lived among the hardships of the campaign. He witnessed the scenes enacted at Murfreesboro, Chickamauga, Lookout Mountain and other desperately fought actions of the war between the States in which the loyal .sons of the North and of the South fought to the end, each for what they held was right.

It was in such environment that tried the very souls




of men, that an impressionable boy not yet in his teens, had the early molding of his character. In it was seasoned the courage that had sent him, inexperienced and frail, to challenge for life and fortune. In these scenes in which were born the reunited nation with its brilliant future he imbibed the spirit of empire, the broadness of vision and the inspiration of immensity that determined the wide bounds his later activities in life were to reach.

In addition to helping mold his character, the great maelstrom into which he had thrust himself had a decisive effect upon determining his immediate life and actions. The little newsboy, unafraid where many a man knew fear, won numerous friends among both enlisted men and officers. So personal was the interest they took in him that after his pony had been shot from under him in one of the sharpest engagements, an army surgeon decided it was no place for a boy of his years and had him sent to his home in Ottawa, Ohio, where he arrived in 1863.

As a background to this remarkable part of Colonel Pryor's boyhood there is a story of a kind woman's influence over a motherless boy and her persevering search for him that ended in a manner that cannot but be considered providential.

In one of the former homes to which the boy was sent he found an elder cousin, a beautiful young girl just entering into womanhood, who felt the warmest sympathy for the orphaned boy brought into the home of her sisters and brothers. She was his defender in the reckoning over childish scrapes and his comforter in times of childish grief. Following his transfer to the home of his uncle at Spring Hill, this girl had married Mr. John 0. Ewing and removed to Nashville, Tenn. The orphan boy frequently thought of her in his new home and longed for her comforting. It accordingly happened that when he was severely, and, as he felt, unjustly punished for a prank in which he had played an unwilling part, he


termined to leave his uncle's home and go to Mrs. Ewing, who, he felt, would gladly give him a home with her.

He was resolutely making his way toward Nashville when a sudden advance of Federal forces passed beyond him and left him within the Union lines, thus determining his further wanderings. Incidentally, the sudden shifting of battles around interrupted the pursuit of the runaway and prevented his being returned to Spring Hill, Tennessee.

More remarkable still was the manner in which eventually he was found by Mrs. Ewing. Never losing faith that ultimately he would be located, she religiously asked every person who came from the Union lines for information of him. One day a Federal forage party reached the country home where she was living outside Nashville. The commanding officer, after taking the supplies wanted, courteously offered to issue a receipt for the property taken so that later claim might be made for the amount. He approached Mrs. Ewing to give her the document and, pursuing her usual course, she asked him if by chance he knew aught of a boy she described who was thought to be among the Federal troops. To her unbounded surprise and joy the officer not only knew the boy; he had frequently shared his couch with him, bought papers from him and assisted him. More important still, he knew of his being sent to Ottawa, Ohio, by the Federal surgeon. Means were at once adopted to get in cornmunication with the boy in his new home. It was just in time, for the adventurous lad, thus placed on the very shores of Lake Erie, had determined upon a maritime career. He had even selected the vessel upon which he was to embark and had made overtures to her captain. Only the strong love he felt for the good woman who had protected him in his earlier childhood deterred him from becoming a seaman.

President Johnson, himself, became interested in the story of the boy, which reached him, and in 1864 had him


returned to his relatives in Tennessee. He remained with them until 1870, when he took the step that was the real determination of his future career. At that time he turned his steps to the wide expanse of Texas. His first employment was as a farm hand. For this he received $15 a month. The next year he entered the cattle industry. His first connection with it was as a trail hand, driving his cattle to Coffeyville, Kansas. This was but the first of a number of trips he made over the now almost forgotten trails upon which are found today some of the greatest cities of the country as successors of the hamlets of those times. In 1872 he helped to drive a herd of cattle from Texas to Colorado. From then on his activities for many years were uninterrupted in the raising and marketing of live stock as practiced in those years. In 1873 he was employed on the Charles Lehmberg ranch in Mason County and there he really began his upward climb in the cattle business. Within a short time he had become ranch manager and in 1874 he had the responsibility of driving the cattle to Fort Sill, then Indian Territory, in fulfillment of contracts for their delivery to the Indians. The following year he was engaged largely in driving cattle to Austin for sale to the butchers there.

In 1876 he became a ranch owner, buying land and cattle in Mason County. The next year he again had charge of a herd of cattle driven overland, this drove including 250 head of his own cattle, which, together with those of John W. Gamel, were taken to Ogallala, Nebraska. Each season he reinvested and as the years passed in succession he drove ever-increasing herds of his own to the Northern markets. In 1878 he drove 3,000 head on his own account, in 1879 he drove 6,000 and in 1880 he drove 12,000. About that time he formed a partnership with his brother in Colorado and by 1881 he had so increased his drive that the total that year was fifteen herds of 3,000, making a total of 45,000 head in


a single year. These were taken to the North and Northwest over the much-discussed Chisholm Trail, being marketed in Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming and the Dakotas. Profits of from $3 to $5 a head were reckoned for the enterprise, but a period of reverses came with the winters of 1884 and 1885, and despite the large operations that had been carried on, Pryor Brothers showed a loss of half a million dollars and their liquidation resulted.

Nothing daunted, Mr. Pryor again resumed his operations, centering his activities again in the Texas field, where he had achieved his first successes. By this time the innovation of the railways and barb wire fencing had greatly changed the conditions that existed in the earlier days of the open range and the trails. "Adapting himself to the new conditions, Colonel Pryor again achieved success, and this time a lasting one.

The Texas Cattle Raisers' Association had been organized by leading cattlemen of the State in order to afford themselves mutual protection for their cattle. Colonel Pryor early became identified with the organization and in 1887 he was elected a member of its executive committee. This was the beginning of a long and distinguished service in the interest of organized cattle industry. In 1902 Mr. Pryor was elected first vice president of the Texas Cattle Raisers' "Association and in 1906 he became its president under conditions which made the honor one especially great. This was due to the fact that Colonel Pryor was one of the heads of one of the largest live stock commission firms in the country (the Evans-Snider-Buel Company). Some opposition developed in the convention to electing as president a man who was so prominently engaged in the commission business, where it was felt that there might arise conditions in which the interests of the cattle raisers and the commission merchants would be at variance. Those who knew him personally and therefore trusted him to the


limit, were sufficiently strong to bring about his election. During his administration for the year the others became so thoroughly convinced of his unfaltering devotion to their interests that the 1907 convention witnessed the dramatic and touching incident of his re-election without opposition by unanimous consent, attested by a rising vote. It was thus he was recognized by an organization that had grown to a membership of 2,000 cattlemen, owners of an aggregate of 5,000,000 head of cattle. Even this tribute was not the full measure of their reliance upon him. The succeeding year the members of this organization, which had grown to be one of the most important in the commercial life of the nation, broke the time-honored rule of limiting the presidency to two terms. They passed an amendment to the constitution permitting a longer term and enthusiastically named him for his third term. In 1909 he was again importuned to stand for re-election, but resolutely declined.

In the meantime, Colonel Pryor had also been elected president of the Texas Live Stock "Association, which included all classes of interest in the live stock industry of the State. He was importuned to accept another term as its head, but declined re-election. Later he was chosen to head the National Live Stock Shippers' Protective League, which was organized at Chicago for the purpose of protecting the interests of live stock shippers all over the United States.

On January 8, 1917, at the convention held at Cheyenne, Wyo., there was added to the other honors conferred upon him by the live stock interests of the country, the presidency of the American National Live Stock Association. Again at the convention held in January, 1918, at Salt Lake City, Utah, he was elected to succeed himself. A speech made by Colonel Pryor before that convention made definite recommendations to Congress for national legislation affecting the cattle and meat-packing industry and attracted nation-wide


interest and indorsement. This was perhaps the beginning of the active campaign in behalf of the Kendrick or Kenyon bill, as it is generally known. In 1919 Colonel Pryor retired from the presidency of the American National Live Stock Association, being succeeded in that office by Senator J. B. Kendrick. Last September Colonel Pryor went to Washington and testified before the Senate Agricultural Committee favoring the Kendrick or Kenyon bill. This testimony was given wide publicity through the American press at that time and is believed to have exerted a wide influence.

While centering his greatest efforts in the live stock business, Colonel Pryor has not attained prominence in it alone. He was first chairman of the Texas Industrial Congress. In 1908 he was elected president of the TransMississippi Commercial Congress at Denver, Colo., and it was in a large measure through his instrumentality that San Antonio was selected for the 1909 session of that great body. In 1909 he organized and accepted the presidency of the City National Bank of San Antonio. He was at the same time vice president of the R. E. Stafford & Co., bankers, of Columbus, Texas, and vice president and one of the managers of the Evans-Snider-Buel Company.

Keeping constantly in touch with all conditions affecting the cattle market, he has been able successfully to manage affairs that many would deem impossible. "At the outbreak of the Spanish-American War he sent a special agent to Cuba to keep him advised as to the cattle conditions on that island. This foresight and enterprise resulted in his sending the first shipload of beeves that arrived in Cuba after the blockade had been lifted. Other shipments followed in quick order until 7,000 head in all had been landed at Havana, bringing the unusually high prices that they could command. Interested with Colonel Pryor in this bit of enterprise was J. H. P. Davis of Richmond, Texas.


Such is his character that it is his great fortune not to be envied in his success and honors. This is because in his rise to prominence and wealth he has never been other than the same true-hearted man of the plains. To this day his office in San Antonio is the gathering place of the greatest of that great clan of Texas empirebuilders, the early cattlemen.


By L. B. Anderson, Seguin, Texas

I was born in Amite County, Mississippi, March 24, 1849. Came overland with my parents to Texas in the


spring of 1853. Our outfit consisted of two wagons and a buggy, and we also brought several of our negro slaves. My mother and the youngest children rode in the buggy, which was drawn by an old mule. We crossed the Mississippi River on a ferryboat. I do not know how long it took us to make the trip, but we must have made very slow progress, for the older children walked almost all of the way and drove an old favorite milch cow that we called " Old Cherry." I remember one amusing incident about that old cow. She had a growing hatred for a dog, and never failed to lunge at one that came near her. One evening about dusk as we were driving her along the way we came to a large black stump by the roadside, and "Old Cherry," evidently thinking it was a dog, made a lunge at it and knocked herself senseless.


The one thing that stands out most vividly in my recollection of that trip is the fact that I was made to wear a sunbonnet all the way. I hated a bonnet as much as "Old Cherry" hated a dog, and kept throwing my bonnet away and going bareheaded, so finally my mother cut two holes in the top of the bonnet, pulled my hair through them and tied it hard and fast. That was before the days of clipped hair, and as mine was long enough to tie easily, that settled the bonnet question, and I had to make my entrance into grand old Texas looking like a girl, but feeling every inch like a man.

We stopped in Williamson County, near Georgetown, then in the fall of the same year we came to Seguin, Guadalupe County, where I have lived ever since, except when I was following the trail. My father bought a tract of land west of Seguin for $1,000 cash. As it had not been surveyed by either the buyer or the seller neither of them knew how much land the tract contained. Twenty years later father sold it for just what he had paid for it, and when it was surveyed it was found to be several hundred acres, and is now worth $100 per acre.

There was but little farming carried on in those days, the settlers depending on grass for feed for their work teams and other stock. The crops of corn and cane were made with oxen. Many times I have seen the heel flies attack a yoke of oxen and they would run off, jump the rail fence and get away with the plow to which they were attached, and sometimes it would be several days before they were found. Of course we did not make much farming after that fashion, but we did not need much in those days. We lived care-free and happy until the outbreak of the Civil War, when father and my older brother went into the service to fight for the South, leaving me, a lad of only 11 years, the only protection for my mother and younger brothers and sisters, but mother was a fearless woman and the best marksman with a rifle I ever saw, so we felt able to take care of ourselves. My duties


during the war were many and varied. I was mail carrier and general errand boy for all of the women in the neighborhood. Among other things it was my duty to look after the cattle. During this trying time the cattle accumulated on the range and after the war when the men returned cow hunting became general. From ten to twenty men would gather at some point, usually at old man Konda 's, in the center of the cow range, and round up the cattle. Each man would take an extra pony along, a lengthy stake rope made of rawhide or hair, a wallet of cornbread, some fat bacon and coffee, and plenty of salt to do him on the round-up. Whenever we got hungry for fresh meat we would kill a fat yearling, eat all we wanted and leave the remainder. On these trips I acquired my first experience at cow-punching. Our route usually would be down the Cibolo by Pana Maria and old Helena to the San Antonio River, and up Clate Creek, gathering all the cattle that belonged to our crowd and some mavericks besides. The drives would generally wind up at old man Konda's, from where he had started, and here division was made, each man taking his cattle home, where they would be branded and turned out on the range again. Some of the men who went on these trips were Gus Konda, considered the best cowman in Guadalupe County, John Oliver, Frank Delaney, Dud Tom, Whit Vick, W. C. Irvin, John and Dud Jefferson, Pinkney Low and sons, and General William Saffold.

There was no local market for the cattle, and the Kansas drives started about that time. Eugene Millett and his two brothers, Alonzo and Hie, engaged in buying beeves and work oxen to send up the trail in 1869. My father sold them several yoke of oxen which he had freighted to Mexico with, and I helped deliver them to Mr. Millett at the Three Mile Water Hole north of Seguin. I was already a cowboy in my own estimation, those hunts on the range having given me a taste of the life. Hearing Millett's men tell of their trips up the


trail, I decided at once that that was the life for me, so I told my father I wanted to go with the herd. He very reluctantly gave his consent, but made me promise that if I was going to be a cowman that I would be "an honest one." He then proceeded to give me a lot of advice, and presented me with a ten-dollar gold piece for use on the trip. My mother sewed that money in the band of my trousers (breeches, we called them in those days) and I carried it to Kansas and back that way, and when I returned home I gave it back to my father.

The next fall and winter I worked for Pinkney Low, gathering cattle on the range to be taken up the trail in the spring. I went on the trail every year thereafter until 1887, when the trail was virtually closed. I went twice as a hand and sixteen times as boss of the herd. I drove over every trail from the Gulf of Mexico to the Dakotas and Montana, but the Chisholm Trail was the one I traveled the most. The men I drove for were E. B. Millett, Alonzo Millett, Hie Millett, Colonel Seth Maberry, W. C. Irvin, Tom and John Dewees and Jim Sherrill. The places I most often delivered cattle to were Baxter Springs, Great Bend, Newton, "Abilene, Ellsworth and Dodge City, Kansas, Ogallala and Red Cloud Agency, Nebraska, Fort Fetterman, Wyoming and Dan Holden's ranch in Colorado on Chug River. Some of the most prominent cattlemen I knew in those days were Pressnall and Mitchell, John Blocker, Jim Ellison, D. R. Fant, John Lytle and Dick Head.

My experiences on the trail were many and varied, some perilous and some humorous. I remember one exciting time in particular, when I was taking a herd for Millett & Irvin from the Panhandle ranch to Old Fort Fetterman in the Rocky Mountains. The Sioux Indians made a raid on us, got off with most of our horses and all of our provisions. We had nothing to eat except buffalo and antelope meat until we reached North Platte City, a distance of two hundred miles.


In 1871 I went up the trail with T. B. Miller and Bill Mayes. We crossed at Red River Station and arrived at Newton, Kansas, about the time the railroad reached there. Newton was one of the worst towns I ever saw, every element of meanness on earth seemed to be there. While in that burg I saw several men killed, one of them, I think, was Jim Martin from Helena, Karnes County.

One fall after I returned from Wyoming, Millett sent me to the Indian Territory to issue beef to the Indians on a government contract. I was stationed at Anadarko on the Washita River, and issued but once a week at Fort Sill and Cheyenne "Agency on the Canadian River. There I saw my first telephone. It was a crude affair, and connected the agent's store and residence, a distance of several hundred yards. The apparatus consisted of one wire run through the walls of the store and house with a tube at each end through which you had to blow to attract attention of the party called, and then you could talk over it as well as any phone of the present time.

I was in "Abilene when Wild Bill Hickok had full sway in that town and it was dangerous for a man to walk the streets. I was there when he killed Phil Coe. Some of the old cowboys who followed the trail from this country were the twin brothers, Cap and Doc Smith, Dud Tom, Joe Ellis, Haynes Morgan, Mit Nickols, John and Fenner Jefferson, Whit Vick, Bill Coorpender, Frank Rhodes, Leroy Sowell, Billie McLean, Billie Thompson, Pat Burns, Tom Terrell, John and Tom Lay and many others.

The journeys up the trail were beset by many dangers and difficulties. Savage Indians often attacked the herd in attempts to cause a stampede. Few outfits were strong enough to repel the Indians by force and were compelled to pay them tribute in the form of beef. To do the work required on those drives took men of strong nerves, iron bodies and alert brains.

The last trip I made was in 1887, when I drove horses.


I bought them from Redman and his partner through Mr. George Saunders. They were a bunch of Spanish mares just from Mexico, and I remember a squabble I had with two other buyers over a big white paint stud that happened to be in the bunch. I got the stud, all right, and made big money on him as well as all of the other horses.

In 1888 I married and settled down on my farm, but never could quite give up the cattle business, and on a small scale have handled some kind of cattle ever since, but the Jersey or any other kind of milch cow has never appealed to me as the Texas longhorn did. "After thirty years of settled life the call of the trail is with me still, and there is not a day that I do not long to mount my horse and be out among the cattle.


By Jeff Connolly of Lockhart, Texas

I was born at Prairie Lea in 1863 and moved to Lockhart in 1876. My experience in the good old days gone by was as follows :

Drove on the trail for old Captain King of Nueces County in 1880 with a man by the name of Coleman as boss, and when I got as far as Taylor, King sent me back and I helped another brother of this man Coleman drive another herd of the King cattle to Red River. The only white men with the herd were Coleman and myself, the balance of the bunch being Mexicans. All the old-timers know how King handled the Mexicans— he had them do the work and let the white men do the bossing.

I was on the trail that year about three months and drew a salary of $1.50 per day and board was furnished me.

During the winter of 1881 and spring of 1882 I drove


cattle for George W. Littlefield of Austin, who I am sure all the old-timers remember and regard very highly. I went with A. "A. Woodland, who all the old-timers in Lockhart knew very well and who lived here during his latter days. When we got to old Fort Griffin we cut the stock cattle all out, which amounted to about 1,000 cows at that time. Myself and two other men held these at Foil Creek, this side of Fort Griffin, until another herd reached us, which was about thirty days. Then we turned them in with another herd of Littlefield's cattle that was being handled by a man by the name of McCarty, another Irishman who looks about like I do. From there we went on to the Pecos River, where the L F D ranch of Littlefield was established, known to be one of the foremost ranches in that part of the country. We had plenty of good horses on this drive and McCarty and Littlefield bought fifty more when we reached Fort Griffin from a Mexican at that place. These last horses they bought had a colt every once in a while as we were mounting them in the mornings.

This herd of cattle McCarty was looking after was bought from Jim Ellison, a noted cowman in Caldwell County in the seventies, who owned what was then known as the Ellison ranch, where these cattle were delivered to Littlefield.

Last time I was in "Austin, about six years ago, I went into the American National Bank with a friend of mine and I asked the teller of the bank where the Major was. He told me he was back in his private office. This friend of mine wanted to know why I was asking about Major Littlefield and asked me if I knew he was a millionaire? I told him that I knew that, but that I used to drive on the old trail for him and was anxious to see him. I went back and told the Major who I was and he treated me as fine as any man was ever treated. If I had been a millionaire myself he could not have treated me any better, and that's what makes us common fellows like him. He


is just as plain as if he didn't have any more than we have. We talked about old times when the other fellows like Bud Wilkerson, Phelps White, Tom White, some of his men, used to work with me for him. He told me these three fellows were still with him on the ranch and making good.

In 1884 I drove a herd of horses from Banquette in Nueces County, for a man by the name of Frank Byler. Right at the edge of Lockhart, where we camped that night, and from where we started to town next morning we were arrested by Sheriff Allie Field for trespassing. We had no money and Frank did not know what in the world to do, and I told him to go to Dr. Blanks of Lockhart, a great friend of the old trailers, and he would loan us the money to pay the fine. We borrowed $50.00 in money and bought $50.00 worth of grub on credit, and when we got to Onion Creek we sold two horses for $100.00 and in a few days sent the money to Lockhart, and from that time on we had plenty of money to do us.

When we got to Hillsboro it was very cold and raining and we broke our wagon down and had to stop. Our horses stampeded all over that country and twenty-seven froze to death that night.

We remained there about four days waiting for it to thaw out, and when it did we sold about forty-five saddle horses to an old cowman of the Red River country. We headed from there to Red River, and when we got there the river was up and we got a little of that stuff that livens up. The herd attempted to stampede, but we held them and put them across all right.

Everything went well until we got to the Washita, where the herd stampeded again and we were two days crossing the river. One night I stayed over there with the Indians. This side of Okmulgee we went out hunting a place to camp one evening and came across a little clump of trees where we saw a man hanging there by the neck with a sign on him, "Death to the one who cuts him


down." We saw he was dead and we did not cut the rope. We went on further to camp that night.

We reached the "Arkansas River in a few days, where we had to lay four days on account of the river being up. Just before we crossed we found that the Indians had stolen a lot of blankets from our Mexicans. I made our bunch of Mexicans go up to their camp and steal some of the Indians' blankets and slickers, and the next day when we crossed the river the Indians were pointing at the Mexicans, noticing that they had stolen their blankets and slickers. They were talking Indian and our Mexicans did not know what they were talking about. We had no further trouble until we got to Baxter Springs, Kansas. The first night we were camped on the state line we had a big stampede. The Indians were there to count us up for grass fee, and we run them through so fast they could not count them and lost count. They accepted our count and, of course, we guessed them low enough to take care of ourselves.

We did very well, selling these out to people all over the United States, as there were traders there from everywhere.

In 1885 I drove cattle with Bill Jackman of San Marcos, the herd belonging to Hez Williams and Bill Goode of Kyle. This herd was put up at Rancho Grande, in Wharton County, by Bob Stafford of Columbus. When we got to old Texarkana we had a 'big stampede that night and whipped them in and ran them over one another trying to hold them until they looked like they had been in a wreck. They had "run" on the brain all the way until we got to Kyle. When we reached there every fellow was about on foot, as our horses had played out, so we put the herd in Desha Bunton's pasture and stayed there several days to get a new outfit of horses, and had them all shod up to go through the mountains and get a new outfit of men also, as the boys all quit except Fisher, Jackman and myself. We pulled out from there


with a new set of men and horses headed for Deer Trail, Colorado, south of Cheyenne. "A few nights after we left Kyle we had a big rain and the cattle drifted pretty well all night, and Tom Fisher and myself came upon a man camped in a wagon and told him to get up, for it was daylight. When he got up we both crawled in with our wet clothes on and went to sleep and left him on the outside. When morning came we got up and began rounding up the herd and none of the bunch had missed us. We traveled along all right then until we reached Bell Plains one evening. There a Dutchman came out and told us to move on, and we told him to hunt a warmer climate, that we were going to camp there that night. About twelve o'clock that night he and the sheriff came to our camp hunting the boss and couldn't find him. They went away and next morning before breakfast they came back and wanted to know where the boss was, and we told him we didn't have any. He wanted to stop our herd of cattle, but we told him if they did they would have to give a $30,000 bond, as these cattle were mortgaged and could not be stopped without somebody giving bond. The sheriff called us off and talked with us a while and told us he would see us about it, and this was the last we ever heard of the matter.

Everything went all right from here until we got up to Doan's Store, when one night the wagons caught fire and burned the wagon sheet. We got busy just at this time trying to save our coffee and a little meat we had picked up from the 3 D cattle.

From there we had to rustle a wagon sheet to keep everything dry when the rains came up. We got along all right from here until we got to Wolf Creek at old Camp Supply, where they quarantined us, and we had to go down to No Man's Land, a strip between the Panhandle and Kansas, now a part of Oklahoma. Crossing the plains it drizzled very nearly every night, just enough to make the cattle walk till about eleven o'clock at night.


When we got to Beaver, this side of the Arkansas River, in Colorado, we sold the cattle. After we turned them over Bill Jackman and myself came back over the trail and met Alex Magee and his cattle and stopped him for a few days to let his cattle rest up, as we knew the people that had contracted his cattle were waiting for him, and we wanted his bunch to look good when he got there. Wanted them to show up all right so there would be no kick. When we brought the cattle up to turn them over to the buyers they received them with the understanding that we had to brand them. We carried them up Beaver Creek for about 40 miles, where we branded them, and after we had done this they asked us to carry a bunch of about three hundred white-face Herefords, the first I ever saw, up in the Rocky Mountains and put them in winter quarters. When we got them there he fitted us up with fresh horses and everything and started us for West Los Angeles to ship us back home.

In 1886 I started to go up with Bill Jackman again, but when I got to the Hutcheson ranch near San Marcos, Jackman was there and told me he had sold the cattle to John Blocker, who would be there directly with his outfit to receive them. When they came he recommended me to the man who was in charge of the cattle —a man by the name of Murchison, who was also in charge of the horses and outfit. Next day we rounded up the pasture, but they didn't take the cattle, and we went from there on to Kyle to the Vaughn pasture. Arch Odem in a few days bought about 1,500 head of cattle down on the Guadalupe River and brought them up to where we were and turned them over to us. We went on up in a few days to the Hez Williams ranch and got about 800 more steers. In a few days we got about 700 head more from places near there, then pulled out for the trail, being the first herd of the Blocker cattle for that year. When we got between Runnels and Abilene we laid in wait there until ten more herds of the Blocker cattle caught up with


us. Then we shaped up ten herds to go on to Colorado, and I and my bunch cut cattle all the way until we got to Red River. "At Red River we took the lead cattle out of two herds and put them together in one herd and left the drags together in another herd.

When we reached the Wichita Mountains, in Indian Territory, the Indians met us there and wanted beef. I had a big black range steer I had picked up in Texas, and when I got up in the roughest part of the mountains I cut this steer out and told them to go after him. The steer outran them and got away and directly I saw them coming back, one after another, like they travel, but without any beef. The next day the trail cutters looked us up and did not find anything. Then we went on until we got to Camp Supply, where we had to go across the plains again, and it was very dry. The first evening we struck the plains we drove right square until night and I held up the lead cattle and the wagon was not in sight at this time. We camped there that night and there came the hardest rain I ever saw fall, and it was so cold we nearly shook ourselves to death. It rained all the time from there on to Hugo, Colorado, where Blocker turned these cattle loose and where they were rebranded and turned loose again.

From Hugo I helped take about 1,000 head of saddle horses and put them in winter quarters, and when that was done I came back home.


By Luther A. Lawhon, San Antonio, Texas

We can scarcely estimate the debt which we owe to the men who made the Trail. Lest we forget— those pioneer settlers and ranchmen were not only empire builders, but were also the "mudsillers" upon which has been erected that superb structure of productive wealth


—the American live stock industry as it exists today west of the Mississippi. It is indeed a far stretch from the domesticated, gentle thoroughbred to the wild, untamable "longhorn." But is it not well that at times we take a


retrospective view, and contrast the present with the past? By so doing we may the better determine the extent to which this all important industry h a s progressed with our geographical development, and also incidentally keep alive the memories and the traditions of a bygone age.

By a degree of good fortune it fell to me to be reared from infancy to manhood in Southwest Texas in the midst of that favored section when it was one vast breeding ground for cattle and horses, and from which was afterward to be driven those herds that, moving across the prairies of Texas and through the Indian Territory, from 1869 to 1886, poured into the wild and unsettled area from Kansas to the British Dominions. In the days and in the section of which I treat the railroad, the telegraph and the telephone were unknown. "A greater part of the land still belonged to the State and was prized in the main for the grasses which grew upon it ; fencing wire had not been invented, and in consequence the entire country, except where dotted with ranches, was unfenced and uncontrolled —a common pasture in which thousands of horses and cattle roamed at will.


In imagination reverting again to those bygone scenes, I shall endeavor to describe briefly some of the conditions which surrounded the old-time Texas ranchman, his peculiarities and his customs. The country at large was sparsely settled. In a majority of the counties there was barely sufficient population for county organization. The largest and, in most instances, the only town in the county, was the county seat village, with its rock or lumber court house, which was rarely of two stories, and near by, as an adjunct, a one-cell rock or lumber jail. Around the public square were built the few unpretentious storehouses, that flaunted the proverbial signs, "Dry Goods and Grocers," or "Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes," as the case might be. That the weaknesses as well as the social predelictions of the sturdy citizenship might be readily and conveniently catered to, a saloon or perhaps several, could always be found on or near the public square. Clustered about the commercial center, and growing further apart as the distance increased, were private residences which went to make up the hamlet. "After the court house and jail, the hotel— generally a two-story building— was considered the most important, as it was frequently the most imposing structure in the village. In addition to the official and business edifices, there was always a well-constructed school house (there were no free schools in those days) and a commodious, comfortable church house at convenient distances. I purposely use church house in the singular, for in the days under consideration the tabernacle of the Most High was a union structure, erected by the joint contributions of the various and divergent church members, as well as of philanthropic citizens who made no "professions," and in which those pioneer men and women with their families, irrespective of denomination, met together with good and honest hearts and worshiped God in spirit and in truth.

Such, in brief, was the frontier village. Beyond its


confines the country, as stated, was unfenced and uncontrolled. Luxuriant grasses and fragrant wild flowers covered prairie, hill and valley for two-thirds of the year. Herds of cattle and horses grazed in every direction, and each ranchman, by his mark and brand, was enabled to identify his stock and secure its increase. Trained to the range and keen of eye as they were, the old-time ranchmen and their cowboys would necessarily fail to find some of the year's increase when they worked this vast territory. As a result there was a small percentage, yearly, of unmarked and unbranded calves. These animals, after being weaned from the mother cows, would thenceforth be abroad on the prairies, the property of whomsoever found and branded them, and in cowboy parlance were called "mavericks." This name had its origin in the fact that Mr. Sam Maverick, now deceased, an honored and wealthy citizen of San "Antonio, was the owner of a large brand of cattle that ranged throughout Southwest Texas. During the Civil War he was unable to "brand up" the increase in his stock, and in consequence there was a marked augmentation of unbranded and unmarked cattle on the range from San "Antonio to the coast. This fact, and the cause of it, was a matter of general knowledge throughout this section. Therefore, when the old-time ranchman and his cowboys in this territory found an unmarked and unbranded yearling or two-year-old on the range, it was assumed that the animal had at one time been the property of the San Antonio citizen. Hence the term "maverick" soon became universal as a designation for an animal whose owner could not be definitely determined, and has now become a permanent fixture in our English nomenclature. The "roundup," with its chuck wagon, its high-priced chef and bill of fare a la carte, had not as yet been introduced. Those old-time ranchmen were content to simply cow hunt twice a year and brand their calves. As a rule those whose ranches were the nearest hunted together and thereby made up


an "outfit." Their provisions, flour, coffee and dried beef, with the beddin', was loaded on a pack horse, which was driven with the . saddle ponies. They worked the country and branded through the day and camped at night where water was in abundance and where grass was good.

There was an unwritten law, recognized by the good women of the towns as well as of the country, that whenever a party of cow hunters rode up and asked to have bread baked, it mattered not the time of day, the request was to be cheerfully complied with. Not from fear of insult in case of refusal— for each and every cowboy was the champion defender of womanhood, and would have scorned to have uttered a disrespectful word in her presence—but from an accommodating spirit and a kindness of heart which was universally characteristic in those frontier days. My father was a lawyer and therefore my boyhood home was in the village, but I remember the many times that cow hunters rode up to my father's house, and telling my mother they were out of bread, asked that she would kindly bake their flour for them. Everything was at once made ready. The sack was lifted from the pack horse and brought in, and in due time the bread wallets were once more filled with freshly cooked biscuits, and the cowboys rode away with grateful appreiation. These acts of consideration on the part of my mother were entirely gratuitous, but the generoushearted cowboys would always leave either a half sack of flour or a money donation as a free-will offering.

One of the cardinal virtues of the old-time ranchman was hospitality. This commendable trait was not alone possessed by him, but was an attribute of his entire family. The cordial welcome was not restricted to nearby neighbors, friends and acquaintances, but was as freely extended to "the stranger within the gates." The way-worn traveler was never turned aside, and while a guest at the ranch, did illness overtake him, the


watchful vigils and tender hands of the ranchman's wife and daughters ministered to his sufferings as though he was one of the family, until health was restored, and he was sent on his way rejoicing. The wife of the old-time ranchman ! How kind, how considerate she was! It mattered not that at the approach of every full moon the saddle horses were rounded up and more closely guarded, and the guns and pistols on the ranch were overhauled and minutely inspected in anticipation of an Indian raid there was no excitement or complaint on her part! Amidst the dangers and the deprivations of frontier environment, she gathered her little ones closer about her, and with faith in God and reliance on the strong arm of husband, neighbors and friends, went forward uncomplainingly with the stern duties of life. All honor to those noble mothers in Israel!

The methods of business were in keeping with the primitive conditions of society. There were no banks in the country. Owing to this fact every ranch home was the depository of more or less money. The coin, if of considerable amount, was put in saddle bags, morrals, etc., and secreted in remote corners of the house or up under the roof, or buried on or near the premises, and was brought forth from its hiding places as occasion demanded. A somewhat ludicrous incident arose from this peculiar custom. One of the "old-timers," whose ranch was near the line of Karnes and Goliad Counties, finding himself with considerable money on hand, and having no immediate use for it, decided to bury it. Choosing an especially dark night, he went down to his cowpen and, removing one of the posts of the fence, dropped his bag of gold in the posthole. He then replaced the post and returned, satisfied that he had put his treasure where moth and rust could not corrupt nor thieves break through and steal. After considerable time had elapsed he found himself in a position to use his secreted fund. But, unfortunately, he had failed to note the particular


post under which he had buried his money, and all signs of his former visit having been obliterated, he was compelled to dig up one-half of his cowpen before he secured the coveted deposit. When the ranchmen bought stock of any kind they brought the money in gold and silver to where the animals were to be received and paid it out, dollar for dollar. They generally carried the money in leather belts buckled around their waist, but the silver, being more bulky, was placed in duckin' sacks, and was loaded on a pack horse or mule. It was necessary in those days to know the weight as well as the value of money, and therefore it was a matter of current knowledge that one thousand dollars in silver weighed sixty- two and one-half pounds. Robbery was a crime unknown among those rugged and honest old pioneers.

Brave, hospitable and generous, the old-time ranchman believed in justice, simple justice, stripped of all technicalities of law. According to his ethics, the man "who'd forsake a friend or go back on his word," was a scoundrel, and the thief, it mattered not who he was, had forfeited his right to live. But those nice distinctions of judicial import, murder in the first or second degree, manslaughter, etc., did not appeal to him. In the enforcement of the code he did not subscribe to the theory that an accused could be morally innocent and at the same time legally guilty of a crime. When a killin' occurred he asked, "Was ther a grudge between 'em, and wuz it a fair fight?" If so, he could not understand why, when the best shot or the coolest nerve had slain his adversary, the great state of Texas should want to prosecute and punish the survivor. "And as a juror he would not be a party to such prosecution and punishment. In illustration of his personal application and influence in the enforcement of law, I am reminded of the following occurrence : One of the old-time ranchmen and forceful characters in Southwest Texas was a certain Captain Blank. He had been at the head of a vigilance committee


which had hung a number of men under his personal supervision. He was well known throughout his section as a firm, fearless and implacable leader. During the progress of a murder trial in his home county he was summoned to attend as a special venireman. In due time he was called to the stand, and onvoir dire the district attorney propounded the statutory question, "Have you any conscientious scruples in regard to the infliction of the punishment of death for crime?" To the surprise of the district attorney, as well as of all those present, Captain Blank replied, "I have." Then noting the incredulous smile on the faces of the audience, he turned to the court and said, "Jedge, it's this a-way. I don't want to hang a man unless I've got somethin' agin' 'im."

The old-time ranchman never turned a deaf ear to a worthy appeal. His generosity and his warm-heartedness knew no bounds. On the other hand, he would not tamely submit to what he considered an unjust imposition. With a Hampden spirit, it was not the amount, but the principle for which he was ever ready to fight, if need be to the death. The following will perhaps serve to illustrate this phase of his character : One of the cowboys on a Southwest Texas ranch in the olden time, when gas was the principal municipal illuminant, decided to go up to San Antonio for a few days and see the sights and, incidentally, "pike" a little at the Bull's Head or the White Elephant gambling tables. In due time he returned to the ranch. The boys gathered around him to learn what had been his experiences in the big town. After recounting at some length the incident of his sojourn, he casually remarked, "Fellers, I come damn near havin' to kill a hotelkeeper." "Why, how was that, Bill?" queried his auditors. "Well, it wuz this a-way," explained Bill. `The fust night I wuz thar, when I got ready to go to bed a nigger showed me up to my room an' lit the light. On lookin' around, I saw a great big sign tacked to the wall, sayin', `Don't Blow Out the Gas.' Of course then


I didn't blow it out, bein's as they said not to. I jest let the light burn, an' by pulling my hat over my face managed to sleep tolerable well. The next mornin' when I went to settle my bill, that low down hotelkeeper tried to charge me two dollars extra, because I didn't blow out the gas. He shore did. An' I jest looked that hotelkeeper in the eye, an' I told him that I'd fight him till hell froze over, an' then skate with him on the ice, before I'd pay one cent of that two dollars. And I meant jest what I said." The boys all unanimously agreed that if Bill had killed that hotelkeeper, under the circumstances it would have been a clear case of justifiable homicide. Such were some of the conditions, characteristics and peculiarities of a society now long since passed away.

To conclude : In 1880 a combination of circumstances gave me the long-coveted opportunity to go up the trail. I was one of Mr. Cal Mayfield's "outfit" with a herd of one thousand head of ML horses. Our party, with but one exception, was composed of Karnes County boys. We left the Hill pasture in Live Oak County for the long and arduous drive to Dodge City, Kansas. After a halt of three days in the vicinity of Fort Worth, where the chuck wagon was replenished with food sufficient to sustain us to our destination, we virtually bade adieu to civilization, and moved into the wild section of Northeast Texas, and on, on, through the Indian Territory (crossing Red River at Doan's Crossing), until at last, after many hardships and exciting experiences, we again enjoyed the comfort of "God's land," in the frontier town of Caldwell, Kansas. The year above mentioned was one of the worst ever known on the trail. Storms, rain and lightning. We had our first stampede in the Blue Mounds country, north of Fort Worth, and from there on it was a run night after night, with but short intermissions. When we had crossed the Cimarron River, out of the Indian Territory, and came to where the Dodge and the Caldwell trails forked, Mr. Mayfield decided to follow the latter trail, as


Caldwell was somewhat nearer. After resting at Caldwell for a few days, the herd was "split up" and I was assigned to go with a bunch which was loaded on the cars and shipped to Kansas City. From there, back to Texas and home.

In closing this article, I crave the reader's pardon for what may be an unwarranted intrusion of personal feeling. But the old-time ranchman, his bravery, his rugged honesty and his nobility of character, is a theme which is near and dear to me. The purest, sweetest draughts of happiness that I have quaffed in this life, were drawn in those good old days, when as a boy and as a young man, I dwelt in the little village of Helena, the then county seat of Karnes County, in Southwest Texas, in the midst of a noble pioneer people, among whom were many of the men who made the trail. Time's cruel hand has wrought many changes. The silken ties of early association have been severed for years, but the treasured memories of that golden time have kept green in my heart throughout every change and vicissitude of fortune. These hallowed recollections have walked with me thus far and will continue so to do to the end of the chapter. Then:

"Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the nighttime of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled —
You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will cling 'round it still."



By L. B. Anderson of Seguin, Texas

One trip I drove for Dewees, Ervin & Jim Ellison. I got the herd at Rockport, in Coleman & Fulton's pasture, and drove to the Millett & Irvin ranch in the Panhandle, camping right where the town of Seymour is now located, and remained there several months helping to round up several thousand head of cattle. Among those who were with me there on the range were Tom Peeler, Billie Bland, Sam and John Wilson, Billie Gray, Charlie Reed and Whit Vick. We started from that point with three thousand yearlings for Major Wolcott's ranch in the Rocky Mountains. Had good luck all the way until we reached Fort McPherson on the North Platte River, where our horses stampeded and ran right through our herd, causing the yearlings to stampede also, going in every direction, several hundred running into the river. We finally rounded all of them up and delivered the herd in fine shape.

I took one herd of cattle up into Colorado for John and Tom Dewees to a man named Cheatem. We killed many buffalo on this trip, but in Kansas in 1874, on the Ninnisquaw River, I saw more buffalo than I ever saw anywhere else. As far as the eye could see over the plains was a solid mass of moving buffalo, all drifting northward. I remember my first experience in trying to kill one of these animals. I did not know the huge hump on their backs was a row of ribs, and that I could not kill one unless I shot below that hump, but I learned that much while trying to shoot my first buffalo. I had an old cap and ball pistol and, taking careful aim at a bull's hump, I began to shoot, but the only effect my shots had was to make him run faster. I kept up with him, firing as we ran. Sometimes all six loads would go off at the


same time and I would reload, going at full speed. I ran him several miles before I finally killed him.

Besides buffalo, deer and antelope, we used to kill ducks, geese, prairie chickens and other wild fowl, which were plentiful in the uncivilized part of the state. I always enjoyed hunting, and I guess I killed as many deer as the average man. Speaking of deer, reminds me of a peculiar thing that happened in Atascosa County one day. The outfits of Dudley Tom and myself were gathering cattle on Dewees' ranch, when one morning a negro and myself were rounding up a bunch of cattle, when several deer jumped out of a thicket directly in front of us. Of course we gave chase and ran them so close one of the bucks ran against a tree and broke his neck.

At another time, when we were camped near John Tom's ranch in Atascosa County, we were driving a herd of old Mexican beeves down a long lane, and they stampeded, turned around and started back up the lane. A man and woman had just passed us, riding horseback. When they heard the noise of the stampede and saw the herd coming they began to ride for dear life to get out of the way of the frightened cattle. The woman was riding sideways, as was the custom in those days, and it seemed to us that the cattle were surely going to overtake her. Looking back and seeing the cattle gaining that woman suddenly swung herself astride of the horse she was riding and pulled off a race that beat anything I ever saw. She outdistanced everything in that herd and rode safely away.

Stampedes were very common occurrences. Sometimes they were just tame affairs, but at other times they afforded all the excitement anyone could want. It was hard to tell sometimes the cause of a stampede. Often during a clear, still night, when the cattle were contentedly bedded and the night riders were dozing in their saddles, a sudden run would take place and the remainder of the night would be spent in trying to keep the herd


together. One of the worst stampedes I ever witnessed was at Kilgore's ranch near Hondo. Tom Lay was having some fun with a negro boy and the cattle became frightened at the noise the boys made and the stampede that followed cost us several days' hard work and some money to get them together again.

Another bad stampede in which I had to do some tall riding occurred while I was taking a big herd of the Millett beeves to Paul's Valley. When we reached the Devil's Backbone, between Cash. Creek and Washita River, we found the country had been burned off except a small scope of ground between the creeks where fire could not get to the grass, and on that ground I camped at the edge of a strip of timber. I think every prairie chicken in that whole country came there to roost. They were there by the thousands. The next morning, when these chickens began to leave the noise they made frightened the cattle and caused them to stampede. The three thousand beeves ran over that rough country in every direction, and they went several miles before we were able to check them. Several were killed and about a hundred got away.

During the eighteen years that I followed the trail life I was never arrested for any infraction of the law, but on two occasions I came very near being arrested ; the first time just before we crossed a herd at Red River Station. I had started a herd of the Millett cattle to the Indian Territory to turn them into the cornfields to fatten. Mr. Millett said he thought I could make it for a day or two without inspection papers, saying he would overtake me in a few days and bring the papers with him. I got as far as Red River Station without interference, and while we were stopped there for dinner a cattle inspector rode up and demanded my papers. When I told him Mr. Millett would come with them in a few days he said nothing, but turned and rode away towards the county seat. I knew he was going to get the officers


and arrest me, so we hastily rounded up our cattle and rushed them across the river. Just as I succeeded in getting the last hoof across the inspector came with the officers, but he was too late, for I was out of their reach. Mr. Millett arrived in a few days and everything was all right.

The next encounter I had with an officer of the law was near Fort Worth. My outfit had encamped near a settlement. The boys, in a spirit of fun, caught two or three hogs that were foraging about the camp and the squeals of the swine led the settlers to believe that we were stealing the hogs. Early the next morning just after we had strung the herd out on the trail and the cook was getting the chuck wagon in shape to start, the officer rode up, threw a villainous looking gun down on me and told me I was under arrest, accused of stealing hogs. He said he would have to search the wagon, and I told him to proceed, and gave orders for the cook to unload the chuck wagon. When the officer was satisfied we had no hog in the wagon he told us we were free to continue on our trip. Then I sent him off on a "wild goose chase" by telling him that there was another herd several miles ahead of us, and the cowboys of that outfit were the fellows who had stolen the hogs.

My experience with the Indians were like my other experiences— some laughable and others serious. The friendly Indians would sometimes follow us for days and torment us with their begging. Old Yellow Bear, a chief, came to our camp one day at noon and wanted bread. I told the cook not to give him anything, and this made the old chief so mad he stamped his foot right down in the dough the cook was working up to make bread for our dinner.

The Indians at the Red Cloud agency in Dakota did not bury their dead under the ground, but would erect a scaffold some eight or ten feet high, place the body thereon and cover it with a red blanket, besides placing


a bow and quiver of arrows, with a pot of food on the scaffold for the deceased Indian to use on his journey to the "happy hunting grounds." Every animal the dead Indian owned was brought to the scaffold and killed. I have seen as many as twelve dead horses at one scaffold and several dead dogs.

One of the most perilous things encountered on the trail in those days was the electrical storm. Herds would always drift before a storm and we would have to follow them for miles, while vivid lightning and crashing peals of thunder made our work awesome and dangerous. Only one who has been in a Kansas storm can realize what it means. Sometimes several head of cattle or horses were killed by one stroke of the lightning, and many of the cowboys met their death in the same manner.


By C. H. Rust of San Angelo, Texas

As one of the old cowpunchers that enjoyed the life on the Chisholm cow trail that led from Texas to Kansas between 1867 and 1885, the object, as you will readily see, is to keep alive the memories of those early pioneer days. My own interest in these matters is no more than that of any other old-time cowboy who enjoyed the life of those days, but I would like to see in my own day and time some record left to perpetuate the memories of the life of the old cowboy on the trails and the men that followed them.

What happened on these old trails betweeen 1867 and 1885 is history, but at this present time there is no mile- post or stone to mark their location.

I wish to call your attention to the information I can give of those days, the conditions that led up to them, the effect they had on the men who experienced them and on the development of the great Southwest.


In fact, it is not too much to say the reclamation of the Southwest created a class of men that have made and will make a deep and permanent impression on our government. The conditions under which they lived prevented their being bound by conventionalities of an established community. They were creators of a new society. For nearly a hundred years, some in Texas, men have been solving problems that required courage, self-reliance, willingness to assume responsibility and the peculiar quality called long-headedness, which is the ability to foresee the effect of untried experiment. The proof is shown in the influence, out of all proportion to their number, that Texas representatives or delegates exercise in legislative or deliberative bodies outside their own state. The causes that produced this power should be preserved for the study and instruction of those who come after us and who will have to carry on our work. The preservation is surely worth while, and for that reason I am willing to give my own experience, much as I dislike recalling part of it.

I was born in the old red hills of Georgia in 1850. My father and mother emigrated to Texas in 1854. In 1863 my father pushed far out, almost to the danger line, to where the Caddo Peaks and Santa Anna Mountains stand as silent sentinels overlooking the valley of the Colorado River and the great Concho country to the west, far out where countless thousands of buffalo roamed at will, where deer, antelope and wild turkey seemed to have taken possession of the whole country. This wonderful panorama loomed up to me, as a boy, as the idle and happy hunting ground that I had long dreamed of, with the silvery watered streams, like narrow ribbons, winding their way toward the Gulf of Mexico.

I am so tempted that I cannot refrain from quoting from Chapter 1, The Quirt and the Spur, by Edgar Rye, it fits so well in the time and condition : "Far out beyond the confines of civilization ; far out where daring men


took possession of the hunting ground of the Indians and killed herds of buffalo to make a small profit in pelts, leaving the carcass to putrefy and the bones to bleach on the prairies. Far out where cattlemen disputed over the possession of mavericks and the branding iron was the only evidence of ownership. Far out where a cool head backed the deadly six-shooter and the man behind the gun, with a steady aim and a quick trigger, won out in the game where life was staked upon the issue. Far out where the distant landscape melted into the blue horizon and a beautiful mirage was painted on the skyline. Far out where the weary, thirsty traveler camped over night near a deep water hole, while nearby in the green valley a herd of wild horses grazed unrestrained by man's authority. Far out where the coyote wolves yelped in unison as they chased a jackrabbit in a circle of death, then fought over his remains in a bloody feast. Far out where the gray lobo wolf and the mountain lion stalked their prey, killed and gorged their fill until the light in the east warned them to seek cover in their mountain lairs. Far out where bands of red warriors raided the lonely ranch house, killing, burning and pillaging, leaving a trail of blood and ashes behind them as a sad warning to the white man to beware of the Indian's revenge. Far out into this wonderful country of great possibilities, where the sun looked down upon a scene of rare beauty."

The sad thought to this writer is the passing out of those scenes so well portrayed in the above by its author ; the old free grass, saddle farmer and line rider and range, through mystic regions, it is strange.

I turn my face west. I see the red lines of the setting sun, but I do not hear the echo come back, "Go Go west, young man, go west." I turn my face east and I hear the dull thud of the commercialized world marching west, with its steam roller procession, to roll over me and flatten me out.


I ring my Ford car's neck, and go off down the street.

I drifted down into San Antonio, Texas, in the winter of 1869. I was about nineteen years old, long lank and lean ; my height was full six feet. My weight was about one hundred and forty. I had no business in San Antonio. I just went there. I found board and room with a Mrs. Hall on Alamo Street.

This being the largest town I ever was in, I was somewhat "buffaloed," but Mrs. Hall and her husband were old Texas folks. Mrs. Hall was good to me, tried to advise me, but I knew it all. About all I did during my stay in San Antonio was loaf around such places as the Old Bullhead Saloon that faced south on Main Plaza, piked at monte some, saw big old grizzly gamblers get rich, and poor, in a few hours.

When the spring of 1870 opened up I found work with Myers and Roberts. They had just recently bought out the old NOX Ranch, seventy miles west of San Antonio, on the Frio River, thirty-five miles north of Uvalde. I believe it was about the first of April when Meyers and Roberts sold fifteen hundred head of mixed cattle to Ewing and Ingrams of California. We began to put the cattle up at once. About the middle of May we delivered the fifteen hundred head near San Antonio, five miles west of the Alamo.

Ewing and Ingrams made me an offer to lead the herd up the trail to Kansas. This offer I accepted. We held the cattle up a few days to organize, as the outfit was all new hands— green. Some of them had never seen a horse or a cow, much less ridden one. Will say here, I had never been over the trail as far north as Fort Worth. My duty was to look out for good places to camp, bed grounds and crossing of streams. We made only one drive a day, eight to ten miles. We followed the old cow trail from San Antonio to San Marcos, Austin, Round Rock, Georgetown, Salado, Belton, Cleburne, Fort Worth, Boliver, crossing the Red River near Gainesville, through


Nation to Oil Springs, Fort Arbuckle to Wild Horse and Washita.

Here we met forty Comanche Indians. Every one of the redskins had a parasol. I asked them where they had been. One spoke up, in fairly good English, and said they had been in on the Arkansas River making a treaty with another tribe.

We went through the Osage Nation, striking the line of Kansas at Caldwell Bluff Creek. At Ninnisquaw we turned to the left up the Ninnisquaw to the Sand Hill, crossing the Arkansas River at Rayman, Kansas, to Great Bend. Out ten miles north, on Walnut Creek, we held the cattle up, cut out all the steers to fatten, leaving about eight hundred cows one, two and three-year-olds. They were taken on to Nebraska and put on a ranch.

Here I left the outfit. Traveled down the Arkansas River about ninety miles to Wichita, Kansas, all alone. Wichita was then about a mile long, one hundred yards wide and an inch thick. Here is where the Long and Shorthorns met and fought it out right. I remained here about ten days, struck an outfit bound for Texas with a bunch of old trail horses and chuck wagon. We traveled slowly back down the trail, easy gait, telling each other our experiences on the trail going up.

My last trail and range work was in 1877, around old Fort Griffin.

I have been a citizen of San Angelo, Texas, for over thirty years. It is not what I might have been, it is what I stand for today. I believe I have made good. I was all wrong at one time in my life. I am all for the right now. My business is dealing in fuel. I have been right here in one place for twenty years, handling coal and wood, and belong to the old M. E. Church South, and I am proud of her record as a church. I am thankful for my own record that I have lived to get right and do something. I know there are hundreds of the early-day trail hitters doing well and living good, clean lives.


It might be that the old trail driver has something buttoned up in his vest that he won't tell. Well, he is not supposed to tell all he knows, but will tell all he can. I was a grown-up man before I ever saw a Sunday School, but I owe much to my mother for the lesson she taught me at her knee. I departed from her advice in early manhood, but I came back. She and my father are buried side by side here in Fairmont Cemetery, in the great Concho Valley, having lived to a good, ripe old age, over eighty years.

The boys that have passed over the Divide, I do not know where they are, but I hope they got right.

Sketch of W. S. Hall of Comfort, Texas

Mr. W. S. Hall was born in Athens, Maine, December 17, 1829, and came to Texas by boat in 1858, landing at


Indianola. He proceeded by stage to San Antonio to seek his fortune in the cattle business. That same spring he purchased a stock of cattle from Saul Childers and also made a deal for the Hornsby stock, which had branded a thousand calves the year previous, and also secured several smaller herds. Thus he entered the stock business on an extensive scale and became one of the most prominent cattlemen of his time. At one time he owned forty thousand cattle, which. ranged over a vast scope of country. With characteristic foresight and wonderful business


acumen Mr. Hall saw the opening of a new industry in the South, and accordingly established a packing plant at Rockport, Texas, and for eight years successfully operated the plant. In those days artificial ice and modern preservatives were unknown, but, with the aid of salt, he prepared his products in such a manner as to preserve and ship to New Orleans and New York and even to European ports. During the time he was engaged in the packing industry he slaughtered more than forty thousand cattle, one year alone slaughtering over eleven thousand head and marketing more than one thousand barrels of meat in New Orleans. The tallow was shipped to various countries, a thousand hogsheads going to New York. The net weight of each of these hogsheads was eleven hundred pounds. The product brought eight and one-half cents per pound, which netted the packer a good profit. Mr. Hall had no difficulty in securing animals for his packing plant, paying from $7.00 to $12.50 per head for the beeves, $5.00 to $9.00 for cows, and $3.00 to $4.00 for yearlings. Quite a difference in the price of prime stuff is to be seen by comparison with present-day market values.

The only trip Mr. Hall ever made up the trail was in 1872, when he started 4,200 head of cattle from Atascosa County and drove to Wichita, Kansas, where he sold them.

While engaged in the packing business his brother was interested in the industry with him, but the brother died in the early sixties and Mr. Hall conducted the business alone. In 1865 he had seven thousand head of cattle stolen from him by Mexicans, and he followed them into Mexico, where he found some of them, but the cost of bringing the cattle back to Texas was so great he did not bring them. The Mexican government required certain conditions and terms, and it would have cost more than the cattle were worth to get them out of Mexico. The United States government sent the Robb Commission to


adjust claims in 1872 for cattle stolen by Mexicans, and when all differences had been settled between the two countries the indemnity claims were pigeonholed in Washington, D. C., and are probably there yet.

Mr. Hall has two sons engaged in the cattle business, W. S. Hall, Jr., and James Beck Hall.

This venerable character, now in his ninety-first year, is quite feeble, the services of a nurse being constantly required to minister to his infirmities. With his wife he lives at Comfort, Kendall County, Texas, where he is spending his declining years, surrounded by all the comforts that loving hands can bestow.

Thus, in brief, we have the history of one of Texas' most useful citizens. He contributed to the making of the history of the state and, with the names of many others, his achievements will be emblazoned on the scroll of Texas' glory and renown.


By W. F. Cude of San Antonio, Texas

There has always been history from the beginning of the world. It is the duty of the cattle drivers to do their bit in giving to the people of the great state of Texas .some important facts that happened more than two score and ten years ago.

In the year 1861 war broke out between the States and it lasted four years, and during all this time there was no market, so the country was beginning to be overrun with cattle so much that thousands died. Some people went out with a wagon and an ax and killed and skinned them for their hides, which sold for one dollar apiece, though there was not much killing of animals for the hides except where the animal was down on the lift or in a bog hole. This was in 1869 and 1870.


Up until 1872 there was not over 150 miles of railroad in the state ; that was from Galveston to Houston, and a short line from Houston to Brazoria, twenty-five miles in length, and one road from Harrisburg to Alleyton, three miles east of Columbus.

So the cattle driving to Kansas was the only hope at that time, and it proved to be a great help before the railroads got around. Trail driving to Kansas lasted from 1866 to 1886, and it was estimated that fully eight million head of cattle and horses were driven and sold during the twenty years above mentioned to Kansas, the drivers paying for the cattle on an average of $10.00 per head, although most of the horses came back to Texas and were used the next year. There were all sizes of herds, from five hundred to twenty-five hundred cattle in a drove, usually seven or eight men to the small herds and twelve to fifteen men with the large herds.

My first trip to Kansas was in the year 1868. I went with men by the name of Forehand and C. Cockrell. The cattle were steers, six hundred in number, and were gathered near Cistern Postoffice, in Bastrop County. There were eight hands besides the owners and the cook. After we passed Dallas lightning struck the boys in camp, killing one, and three others were so badly burned that one of them quit, so we only had .six all the way to Kansas. We were told by the citizens of Dallas that we would reach the Chisholm Trail a few miles north of Dallas, and we followed it through Fort Worth, a small town, then through the Chickasaw Nation on to Wichita, Kansas, and thence to Solomon City on the Kansas Pacific Railroad, nine miles west of Abilene.

There were but few settlements on the way after we passed Dallas, and when we reached the settlements in Kansas we were all joyful again. We passed through many prairie dog towns and over rattlesnake dens, and lost only one horse from rattlesnake bite. Many kinds of wild animals were to be seen along the way, such as


antelope, elk and buffalo, and we killed one buffalo calf and brought it into camp, though I did not like the meat as well as that of our cattle.

The country was one vast stretch of rich land, no timber except on creeks or rivers, and when we came in sight of timber we knew there would be water. In some instances we had to haul our wood to cook with, but generally we would have to gather buffalo chips (dry dung) for that purpose.

In the fall of 1869 I drove a herd of cattle to Shreveport, Louisiana. We made some money, but the buffalo flies were so bad we never went any more to Shreveport. Sometimes we would get farms to put the cattle in at night and the farms were stocked with cockleburrs and the cattle's tails would get full of burrs, and when the buffalo flies would get after them they would lose their tails fighting flies. Their tails would become entangled in small pine trees and there they would stand and pull and bellow until they got loose. You could hear them bawl a mile. Some of the cattle would run off and lay down, crazed with misery, and it was hard to drive them back to the herd. We sold the cattle in Shreveport and down Red River some fifteen miles distant. This herd was gathered in Gonzales County near where Waelder is now.

In the fall of 1870 I gathered another herd near the town of Waelder, Gonzales County, and went to New Orleans. On this trip we had many rivers and bayous to swim. Ferrymen wanted five to ten dollars for their services. The largest stream was Burwick's Bay at Brazier City, nine hundred yards wide straight across. Here a man led an ox to the edge of the stream and drove him into swimming water, when two men in canoes, one on each side, pointed the herd across. I shipped a carload from Brazier City to New Orleans and drove the rest, selling to plantations until I reached the Mississippi River. There I sold the balance, getting a much better


price than I received for those I shipped to New Orleans, many of the farmers giving me checks on banks and merchants in New Orelans, very few paying the money down. Another herd of cattle went along at the same time, owned by Col. Fred Malone of Beeville, Texas, and Capt. Gibney of New Orleans, and as the latter knew the city well, I got him to assist me in locating the banks and merchants. One of the merchants had moved, however, so we went to the city register to find his location. When I reached this place I found it to be a house made of beeswax and tallow, and I began to think that fellow could not pay a check for $500.00, but it was all paid.

I also drove another herd that same year to Natchez, Mississippi, and sold to two men by the name of John McKen and James Gainer, who lived on Black River, thirty miles from Natchez. We made some money on this herd of cattle. Some of the hands came back with the horses and wagons, myself, Charles Edwards and Henry Crozier taking a steamboat on Black River, thence down to Red River and on down to the Mississippi River to New Orleans. This boat took on board sugar and molasses all along the way. It was a very pleasant trip and somewhat amusing to see the hands load on the barrels of sugar and molasses. They loaded that boat until the deck was right down to the water's edge. At New Orleans we took a train to Brazier City, there we took a ship to Galveston and from there came by train to our home in Gonzales County.

In the year of 1871 I saddled up "Old Ball," my favorite horse, and rode away to Kansas, this time for N. W. Cude, whose herd was gathered in Gonzales, Caldwell and Bastrop Counties. When we reached North Texas I found the Old Chisholm Trail had been abandoned and went far to the west to cross Red River. One morning about 11 o'clock I rode on ahead of the herd to some timber, where " Old Ball" stopped very suddenly, and then I saw an Indian standing near the road. The


Indian had a gun, and I suppose he was out on a hunt, but I gave my horse more slack on the bridle and passed on, and neither of us spoke. A few days later two Indians came up to the herd and wanted beef, but I told them that I had bought these cattle and had none to give away. They talked some English and asked to see my gun. I gave it to one of them and they looked it all over and soon rode away as fast as their horses could carry them. The cattle market was very low that year, so I failed to sell out all, wintering the balance in Nebraska, but they turned out bad. In crossing the Missouri River, it being frozen over, the cattle milled out on the ice and broke through, and we lost sixteen. The expense of wintering was so heavy we came out behind that year.

The first cattle I ever drove to a market was in 1867, to Houston, Texas, for a man by the name of Tumelson, from Gonzales County, and the last herd was in 1872, for a man by the name of 0. J. Baker. R. D. Cude and myself bought the cattle from a Mr. Wimberly, in Hays County. We drove to Kansas and stopped our herd about fifteen miles west of Ellsworth, near the Kansas Pacific Railroad. Everything went well except when we got into Kansas, Bluff Creek being the line. We lay over a day to rest and clean up. Next morning just about sunup, I heard a gunshot down the creek and in a few minutes we saw two Indians running two mules as fast as they could go. They had shot a white man with a gun and arrows. He came dragging up to our camp with one arrow still sticking in him and one of the boys pulled it out and we carried him to a tent not far away.

The trail drivers had many narrow escapes and were exposed to many .storms, cyclones, hail and all kinds of weather, stampedes of cattle, running over ditches and bluffs at night. Some few never came back, but were buried along the lonely trail among the wild roses, wrapped only in their bed blankets ; no human being living near, just the coyote roaming there.



By George W. Brock of Lockhart, Texas

I was born in Caldwell County, Texas, three miles west of Lockhart, January 25, 1860. Beginning at the age of nine years, I commenced to handle stock, but at that time I was too small to get on a horse unaided and my father told me not to get off, but every time I saw a rabbit I would get off and throw rocks at it and then I would have to be helped back on my horse.

About 1871 or 1872 I started on my first trip on the trail, going with my father. When near Fort Worth father concluded I was too young to go on account of the danger of Indians, and he sent me back home.

I continued to work with cattle until 1876, and at this date I went to work for M. A. Withers, herding 300 cows, penning them at night, sleeping at the pens and doing my own cooking.

In 1878 M. A. Withers took a bunch of boys to Fayette County, Texas, and bought about 800 head of cattle. At the crossing on the Colorado, at Judge L. Moore's ranch, we had a great experience in two or three ways. We tried first to swim the cattle across the river, but we only succeeded in getting about ten head across that way and had to rope and drag them. We then crossed the others on the ferryboat. Here I saw my first Jersey. She was a heifer and belonged to Judge Moore, and it was a hard matter to keep her out of our herd. Judge Moore thought very much of this heifer and would watch everybody passing there with cattle. When he came out and found the thing in our herd he threatened to prosecute us for attempting to steal her.

In January, 1879, Blanks and Withers began buying cattle and pasturing them, preparing for a drive in the spring. On the first day of April we rounded up the pasture to start the herd north. On the .second we left


the pasture and went about three or four miles and camped for the night. We had so few men with us that night we lost about 3,200 out of 3,500 head. They just simply walked off and everyone seemed to take a different direction, and, being short of men, they went their way, with the result as stated.

The next morning G. W. Mills (Pap) and myself held the 300 until the others ate breakfast. When we went to camp there were two horses tied up for us. Not one of us knew anything about these horses, but the general opinion of the camp was that one of them was bad. The cook said, "Withers left instructions for Brock to ride the one supposed to be bad and for Mills to ride the other one." So "Pap" had lots of fun while eating breakfast at the thought of seeing Brock thrown and losing his saddle. Breakfast over, Brock saddled the bad horse and mounted him and he walked off perfectly quiet, but it was entirely a different case with "Pap's" horse. "Pap" was the one that went heavenward and had to call for poultices, which was so often the case on the trail, for the fun did not always show up just where you were expecting it. Going back to the herd, we got them all together by the next day, moved back into the pasture and for four or five nights these cattle would walk off ; so the first night we held them we put them on the trail proper the next morning. and drove them as far as possible. We had no other happenings except an occasional storm or high water stampede, which belonged to the business.

In the edge of the state of Kansas the cook accidentally set the grass on fire and we had to move into rough country.

One night Mark Withers cautioned me to tie my horse good so that if anything happened I would be ready. About 12 o'clock the cattle stampeded, and when I got to where my horse had been he was gone. I told Mark my horse was gone and he said, "Durn it ! I told you to tie that horse good." And when we went to where his


horse was tied he was gone also, and I said, "Durn it ! Why didn't you tie him good?" We could do nothing but listen to the running of the cattle, and every once in a while Mark would exclaim, "If I only had a horse!"

After I returned from this trip I worked on the ranch until 1883 and then went to La Salle County for Blanks and Withers and worked on the ranch for four or five months. In 1884 we left home for the Blanks and Withers ranch in La Salle County. The first herd prepared was turned over to G. B. (Gus) Withers, numbering 4,000 3's and 4's. I started to help Gus with this herd to Uvalde County, but we had a stampede just above Cotulla and lost 400 or 500 head. Willis Hargis and myself were left to gather them up. We got all but 200 head of the cattle and most of the horses. Some of the horses went back to the ranch before stopping. In this stampede my horse ran into a ditch that night. The cause of him doing this was because I was trying to point the cattle away from the ditch and a negro (Russ Jones) was on the opposite side of the herd trying to do the same thing, and the result was that instead of pointing them away from the ditch, we drove them straight into it. The banks of this ditch were five or six feet high, and I was fortunate in escaping unhurt.

The stampede occurred in a very brushy place and the men next morning all looked like they had been to an Irish wake, all bloody and bruised.

In this drive we rounded up one of those notorious outlaw steers which were to be found in the country at that time. Withers said if there were any two or three men in the outfit that had the nerve to rope that steer and lead him to a good place he would kill him for beef. Well, I caught him, but if I had not have had others close at hand who came to my rescue and also roped him and spread him out, so to speak, I might not have been writing this story. But between us we killed him and enjoyed his carcass.


The outlaw steer above referred to was rounded up while we were on the ranch after Hargis and I turned over the cattle we gathered after the stampede. I went back to the ranch and we gathered another herd and shipped them to Wichita Falls, Texas. Drove from there to Julesburg, Colorado, San Childress being the boss. We crossed the Red River at Doan's Store, where we laid in supplies to last us until we reached Dodge City, Kansas. They told us at the store that someone was stampeding horses across the river and driving them off. So when we camped at night after crossing the river, Childress and myself tied our horses to the wagon and examined our six-shooters to see that they were in working order. After we had gone to sleep the cook jumped up and said, "The horses are running." Childress and I jumped on our horses with our pistols in our hands, but just then the cook discovered that it was only a pot of beans boiling which he had built a big fire around before going to bed.

After crossing North Red River in the Wichita Mountains, we met a Comanche chief, who said he had 300 bucks besides the women and children. I gave him five crippled yearlings to keep his bunch away from our outfit, and he kept his promise. After we got to the top of the ridge I looked down in the valley of Washita River and the whole face of the country was alive with herds. I went back and stopped the herd until I could survey the route, and found that by going above the trail and crossing about five miles up and swimming the river we could get ahead of everything, so we proceeded to swim the river and get ahead in the lead of all other herds.

Monroe Hardeman was just behind us with another herd for Blanks and Withers, and he helped us swim our herd and we in turn helped him. After we got both herds across I found that the sun had taken all the skin off my back. Swimming the river and an occasional


stampede was about the only excitement until we reached Kansas.

Childress at one time had been shot all to pieces by a bunch of soldiers who mistook him and others for horse thieves, causing him to have a natural hatred toward all soldiers, and at Bear Creek he spied about 300 negro soldiers coming toward us. He squared himself with gun in hand and was ready to open fire. I tried to stop him, but saw there was no use to talk to him, so I roped his horse and pulled him around and led him off. I think that was all that saved our whole outfit, as we were so badly outnumbered it would have meant suicide to have started anything like that. However, we had just left Longhorn Roundup and Childress had been celebrating considerably, and that might have had something to do with his display of nerve that he exhibited there.

From there to Dodge City everything went well. At Dodge City every man, including the boss, except myself, celebrated in great style, while I was left to handle and hold the outfit.

After disposing of our lame cattle we shaped up and moved on to Ogallala. About four or five days' drive out of Dodge City, Tobe Swearingen came to our herd to count the cattle, and he and I did the counting. According to my count the cattle were all there, but he made a mistake of 100, making us out that number, and, it being too late to recount, I spent an awful restless night. I couldn't understand how we could lose that many cattle in a prairie country like that. The next morning we recounted and found that my count was correct. Then my nervousness left me.

Several days later we had to make a long drive for water. We watered at the North Republican. The lead cattle struck the Frenchman about sundown, and from then until next morning about 10 o'clock they kept coming in, and every once in a while a man would show up.


The morning we started this particular drive I ate breakfast at daylight and the next meal I ate was at 10 o'clock the next day.

For the next day or two we grazed along the stream, so appropriately named Stinking Water. When crossing the Frenchman the cook broke down the wagon tongue, and we fixed it by wrapping it with ropes so that it held out for the balance of the trip.

After leaving Stinking Water for Ogallala everything went nicely. Leaving Ogallala we went up the south side of the Platte River to Julesburg Junction, where we delivered our cattle to Governor Rout and ex-Governor Brush of Colorado.

Going up the river our only trouble was to keep our stock off the farmers. They had no fences and it took very careful watching to keep them out of those patches. To let your stuff get on those patches meant the highest price grazing that a Texas horse or steer ever got. One night I woke up and heard the horse bell and I knew it was in the wrong direction, so I got up and found them grazing on one of those high-priced corn patches. I quietly drove them to camp, woke up everybody and moved everything away that night. I believe that corn actually did the horses good; at least they seemed that night to travel stronger than usual.

After reaching Julesburg Junction we crossed the Platte and began delivering.

I was then sent to meet Gus Withers, who had not yet come up with us. I had three horses, riding one and leading the others. When crossing the Platte my horses were so weak from the trip from Texas, and the quicksand so very bad, they could not carry me, so I led them, wading water up to my chin. After crossing the river and about the middle of the evening, I met with something entirely different from anything I had ever before been up against. I had thought up to this time that I knew what a Kansas storm was, but that evening I was


shown that I had never been in one before. The lightning would strike the ground and set the grass on fire, then the rain would put it out. I got off my horse and tied the three together, took off my spurs, six-shooter and pocket knife, laid them down and moved away. After the storm was over the sun came out and it looked as though nothing had ever happened, so I moved on. At night, not knowing where I was, I stopped at a good hole of water, but I had nothing to eat. After lying down I heard the lowing of cattle. I saddled up, putting my bedding in front of me, and started in the direction of the cattle I had heard and, to my good luck, it was Gus' herd. The boys were all very glad to see me, as I had heard from home and they had not. They had been in the same storm that I had just passed through and the lightning killed one steer for them. Very shortly after I reached them their herd stampeded, but they did not lose anything, and Gus said, "The cattle did that to show they were glad to see Brock." I then piloted them back to Julesburg the same route I had traveled in going to them.

After all our cattle had been delivered we naturally felt that we could sleep as long as we cared to. So Childress and myself slept until 10 o'clock the next morning. The sun was unusually bright and, we both being without whiskers on the top of our heads, the boys said our heads made very good mirrors.

The dinner that Mark Withers gave us at the station when we were ready to come home paid me fully for all the meals I had lost on the trip.

The balance of my work with cattle has been on ranches at home.

Old age and parting of ways in life
Will not erase the cowboys' strife.
In after years let come what will,
He proves to be a cowboy still.



The cowboys of Springer, New Mexico, gave their fourth annual ball in that city. They sent something like eight hundred invitations at home, and abroad, inscribed with appropriate verse, as follows :

Caller, let no echo slumber,
Fiddler sweatin' like a steer,
Huff s a-p oundin' at the lumber,
Makin' music the stars could hear ;
Hug the gals up when we swing 'em,
Raise them plum off their feet.
Balance, all ye saddle warmers,
Rag a little, shake your feet,
On to next 'un, and repeat it,
Balance to the next in waitin',
Promenade, and off you go,
Seat your pards, and let 'em blow. "


Get yo' little sagehens ready,
Trot 'em out upon the floor.
Line up there, you cusses ! Steady !
Lively, now. One couple more.
Shorty, shed thet old sombrero !
Broncho, douse thet cigarette ;
Stop thet cussin', Casimero,
'Fore the ladies ! Now, all set !

S'lute your ladies, all together !
Ladies opposite the same—
Hit the lumber with your leathers !
Balance all, an' swing your dame !


Bunch the heifers in the middle ;
Circle, stags, and do-se-do;
Pay attention to the fiddle !
Swing her 'round and off you go !

First four forward ! Back to places !
Second fellow, shuffle back !
Now you've got it down to cases—
Swing 'em till their trotters crack !
Gents all right a'heel and toeing !
Swing 'em, kiss 'em if you kin—
On to next and keep a-goin',
Till yer hit yer pards agin !

Gents to center, ladies 'round 'em,
Form a basket, balance all !
Whirl yer gals to where you found 'em;
Promenade around the hall !
Balance to yer pards and trot 'em.
'Round the circle double quick,
Grab an' kiss while you've got 'em,
Hold 'em to it if they kick !

Ladies, left hand to your sonnies !
Alaman ! Grind right and left !
Balance all an' swing yer honeys—
Pick 'em up an' feel their heft !
Promenade like skeery cattle—
Balance all an' swing yer sweets !
Shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle !
Keno ! Promenade to seats.




By G. W. Mills of Lockhart, Texas

My father and mother were both born in Somerset, state of Kentucky. I first saw the light of day on June 2, 1857, and in the fall of 1872 my father, with his family,including myself, emigrated to Texas. Our mode of


transportation was by way of wagons, there being no railroads convenient at that early date. My father came to look after some land somewhere in the broad domain of Texas (he knew not exactly where) that had been left him by an older brother, Henry P. Mills, who died while serving as a soldier in the Texas War for Independence. We settled near Lockhart in 1874, and at the age of about seventeen I went to work on the M. A. Withers ranch, one of the biggest ranches of this section at that time, which was due west of Lockhart about four miles, as the crow flies.

I think it would be of interest to the reader to have some idea of the appearance of that ranch as it appeared to me, then a mere lad. It was located on a little flowing stream known as Clear Fork and abundantly fed by many springs. This creek was fringed with timber, pecan, walnut, elm, hackberry and wild plum on either bank, and dipping into its crystal waters were the weeping willows. The creek abounded with an abundance of fish, such as bass, channel cat and the silver perch. The old ranch house stood back about three hundred yards east of the creek, on the summit of a gradual sloping hillside


which commanded a view of the beautiful stretch of valley country roundabout and where it was swept by the gentle southern breeze.

About one hundred and fifty yards from the house were the corrals, covering about four acres of ground, and these corrals were divided into various pens, in which we " rounded up " from time to time the great herds for marking and branding. As a matter of course these pens were built to endure and were very strong, as cattle in those days were wild, and in this exciting work none but well-built pens would hold them. The uninitiated will probably be interested in knowing just how these corrals, as we termed them, were built, when material was not so plentiful as now. The material was largely postoak rails, which we had cut and hauled by ox teams about five miles from the timbered country of Caldwell County. The posts were of fine cedar timber obtained from old Mountain City in Hays County. These corrals had to be much higher than the ordinary fence, as the infuriated longhorns would, in their desperation to be free, try to go over the top or break them down. Once the material was on the ground, we dug deep, wide holes, about seven feet apart, and in these we placed two of the cedar posts in such juxtaposition as to hold the long rails which we piled one on top of the other until they reached the top of the high posts. That being done, some of the old-timers bound the ends of the posts together with wire or stout strips of rawhide, but at about the time of which I write we began to bind them with smooth wire. The subdivisions spoken of above were divided into branding pens and horse corrals. We would not be true to the picture we are now attempting to paint in words if we fail to mention the singularly attractive feature of the setting of these particular corrals. They were shaded by large spreading liveoaks, hoary with age, where we hung up our saddles and leggins and various and sundry camp equipage, under which we slept on our blankets and


saddle pillows, and partook of our frugal fare. Some of these grand old monarchs of the forest still stand— the pride of the Texas cowboy.

It must be realized that we had no fences arbitrarily deciding the bounds of our little empire, and our cattle and horses roamed at will over the hills and valleys, covered with the rich, luxuriant curly mesquite grass, upon which they grew sleek and fat.

After three years' work on this busy ranch none but the life of a cowboy appealed to me. Around the old campfires at night I heard the tales of the older men of their exciting life on the trail, and naturally I felt like going the route that those I knew, admired and trusted had gone. Right here I want to put in that, fortunately for me, I was associated with a few of the grand old stockmen of early days, to whose fine, though rugged characters, I am indebted for that training which carried me safely through many trying times.

In March, 1877, as our boss was not to drive that year, I secured employment with Ellison and Dewees, who were going to drive about six herds up the trail from this section to Ogallala, Nebraska, on the South Platte River. In the six herds there were about fifteen thousand head of mixed cattle, being about 2,500 head to the herd, each herd having its boss and trail outfit, which we will now attempt to briefly describe. The boss is the man in charge of the herd ; then there were eight cowboys, one "horse wrangler" and cook, who drove the wagon, drawn by two yoke of oxen —the wagon containing our provisions and bedding, the provisions being replenished from time to time from the "outposts," sometimes hundreds of miles apart. We received our herd in the western part of Gonzales County, the herd being in charge of N. P. Ellison, a cousin of Col. J. F. Ellison, a grand old cowman, who owned the cattle.

On this trip we had with us the following boys, not a one over twenty-three years of age : W. M. Ellison, son


of the boss; E. F. Hilliard, W. F. Felder, E. M. Storey, Albert McQueen, Ace Jackson, myself, two negro cow hands and a negro cook.

We left the Lockhart pasture about the first of April, took the Chisholm Trail and "lit out." My first stampede was on Onion Creek; as usual, this occurred at night, about 12 o'clock. The herd was bedded about one hundred yards from the wagon, two men on guard. In their fright the cattle broke for the wagon, and we asleep at the camp, being aroused by the roar of tramping hoofs, scrambled up on the wagon. One of the older men jumped up and shook a blanket before them and turned them off the other way. The first thing I remember was the boss calling out, "Boys, get down and get your horses." It was then that I discovered that I had quit my pallet and was astride one of the hind wheels. Of course, we hurriedly got our horses, went around the cattle, after about a mile's run, held them, and they quieted down. Old hands at the business will know that we slept no more that night. This trip was marked by excessive rainfall, big rains falling at night, and one hailstorm, adding greatly to the hardship of the cowboy's lot; but we didn't mind it much and, with songs and jokes, kept up our spirits.

When we arrived at old Red River Station, where the old Chisholm Trail crossed, we found the river up and several herds waiting to cross. We stopped on the east side of Panther Creek and pitched camp. I want to say here that that stream was rightly named. We killed a fat yearling—I won't say whose it was—tied a rope to one end of the front bow of the wagon, the other to a small tree; the cook hung the beef on the rope. When the boys came in at 12 o'clock to wake up the third guard he discovered a panther standing on his hind feet eating the meat off of the rope, just on the opposite side of the wagon from where we were sleeping. He opened fire with his forty-five on the panther. We thought


"horse rustlers," now commonly called horse thieves, had attacked the camp. The noise of the firing stampeded the cattle. As the boys sprang out of their blankets some had their forty-fives ready and some made for the horses, where it took but a moment to saddle and then off for the cattle. In the rush E. M. Storey sang out, "What is that? If you don't speak out I'll cut loose at you," and then we recognized the voice of E. F. Hilliard, calling out in the inky darkness from the direction of the firing in excited tones, "It's a damned panther; he's eating our meat off the rope." This was about twenty feet from where we were sound asleep, sleeping as only Texas cowboys can. By that time the herd had gotten a good distance away. We made a run to overtake the herd ; finally rounded up a part of them that night, and the man on guard checked another part further away. The balance we found next morning in the valley of Red River; rounded all up and started back to camp about five miles away. We counted them—always a part of the program—to see if we had lost any. To show that our work was not all "rough work," and that we had our "bookkeeping" department, though ever so simple, I shall tell how this counting was done. The herd was allowed to string out; two men went on ahead, some distance in width between them, the others pointed the herd in their direction and so that they would slowly go be- tween them; then they counted, and with a knot on the saddle string or some other convenient method, tallied them by hundreds, each calling out to see if they had agreed; then knowing the number that we started with, we knew if our roundup had been complete.

We bedded the cattle on the same bed ground that night; I and my pal stood guard from two o'clock in the morning until day. On guard, one rides one way and the other the opposite direction around. As I got on the round on the side next to the creek I heard the most horrifying yell, or more of a scream, that I had ever


heard in all my life. This blood-curdling scream came from a bending tree about sixty yards from the herd. My thick hair went straight up and has never thoroughly settled down since that memorable night. The cattle jumped up, and about that time I met my pal coming toward me. Instantly I said, "What's that'?" His reply betrayed his fright also, although he had been up the trail before. In language picturesque and accurate he replied, "The scream of a panther," with some adjectives before that name which assured me that my hair was not standing on end for nothing. From then on until daylight we just rode around together. Next morning we told the boss that we had rather swim Red River (then three hundred yards wide in swimming water) than to stand guard assisted by panthers ready to spring on man or beast. A conference was held among the bosses and it was decided to cross some of the herd that very day. We hit the water about 10 o'clock and crossed our herd first, four other herds following. Of course, the outfits assisted one another in this hard and dangerous work. In this crossing one of the boys had a horse which refused to swim, and the man had to jump off onto a wild .steer's back, but with pluck made a safe landing on the other side. This put us into the Indian Territory and new precautions had to be taken to save us from attack by the Indians, the several herds keeping close together to be of mutual help in case of a surprise attack. The next river was Washita, and we had to swim that also; narrow but deep and very swift. About a hundred miles further on we came to the North Canadian River, swimming also, narrow, deep and swift. When I swam across and came out on the opposite side on the second bank I got down to pull off my boots to let the water out, and wring my .socks. A few scattering elm trees were ahead and about the time I got my boots off I looked up toward the trees and saw my first Indian, who looked about six and one-half feet tall to me, standing backed


up against one of those elm trees, with the eagle feathers in his head, a long rifle standing up in front of him. He had on buckskin clothes with a dandy fringe on them. My hair rose again very suddenly, so I lit straddle of my horse and ran out to the front cattle. The other two boys thought I was just seeing things because I was badly scared. They did not believe there was an Indian down there, but when they finished crossing the herd and came on up with the wagon there were about fifteen Indians showed up with the one I had first seen acting as chief, who claimed that he was the noted chief, "Spotted Tail." He told the boss he wanted "Wa-ha," meaning beef. Then I had it on the boys and it was their time to get scared. The boss knew it was best to use a little diplomacy, and so he told us to cut out four or five of the "drag yearlings" and turn them over to them. The Indians had just as soon have these lame or given-out cattle as any. Of course, Indian-like, they wanted more, but we outtalked them, telling them there were more herds behind and they would gladly give them some of theirs. Then the chief put up his spiel for "chuck, " meaning flour, bacon, etc. And they talked like they meant to have it. We explained that our supply was short, but just to wait on the big supply coming on behind. They left us and went on to meet the other herds, so we moved on out of their zone that evening. We saw no more Indians on that trip, and we did not look for any. On Salt Fork there came up a rain and lightning storm, and I saw unbelievable doings of the lightning ; it beat anything I ever saw. The lightning would hit the side of those hills and gouge out great holes in the earth like a bomb had struck them, and it killed seven or eight head of cattle in the herd back of us and two horses out of the "remuda, " which, being interpreted, means the saddle horses. Nothing more eventful occurred and in about a week we arrived at the famous and renowned Dodge City, Kansas, a familiar name to all cowmen in


that day. Then we provisioned and started on the tailend of the journey to Ogallala, about three hundred miles. We arrived there about August 1st, our cattle all in good shape in better condition a long ways than when we left. They were there delivered to the various purchasers, who removed them to their respective ranches in that great cow country. Our faithful saddle horses, wagons and all were disposed of with the cattle. On the night of August 20, this being 1877, I went to call on Col. J. F. Ellison, he being indisposed and stopping at the Gass House, and also to get my "time," which really means wages, about $180.00, then a small fortune for a young cowboy. Upon this visit to Colonel Ellison I was introduced to two guests who had called to pay their respects. They were two brothers, Joel and Joe Collins, handsome young men, products of the West. About a week afterwards, in that very neighborhood, the Union Pacific was held up eighteen miles west of Ogallala and the robbers rifled the express car, taking $100,000 in gold, but scorning to take a huge amount of silver, which perhaps was too heavy to take with them in their hasty flight. Joel Collins was in this very holdup, being with the notorious Sam Bass gang, who successfully did the trick. About a week afterward Joel and George Hereford were killed by a detachment of United States soldiers and their part of the loot recovered, about three miles south of what was known then as Buffalo Park, on the K. P. Railroad. Upon getting my time I lit out for home over the U. P. Railroad. On the way back I fell in with some wild and woolly green cowboys making their first trip on a train, just like myself. At Grand Island the train stopped for breakfast ; we got off and on the way to the eating place a negro suddenly came around the corner of the house, beating one of those huge gongs, making a most terrific din of noise. We were sacred senseless, and it was all I could do to keep one of those boys from shooting that darkey. He contended that he would let


no d----n nigger stampede him by beating on a tin can. It is hard for you who have always traveled and become accustomed to the ways of the city to understand just how puzzling civilization is to a boy raised up on the Texas frontier, whose life is very simple, and who knows cow trails far better than he does paved streets and the campfires the only hotels he ever saw until forced out into the world.

We arrived at Austin on time and there I took one of those old-fashioned stages to Lockhart, feeling like I had seen the world, and with much pride telling the boys all that I had seen and been through. The younger boys looked upon us fellows who had been up the trail as heroes, and of course this very thing incited others to want to go. It was the life ambition of many a one to make such a trip. You were not a graduate in the cowboy's school until you had been.

In 1878 I was back on the comfortable old Withers ranch. In 1879 my old friend and boss, M. A. Withers, took through a herd and I went with him. We crossed the Colorado at Webberville and arrived at Taylor about the 22nd of April. A rain, a terrible rain, came up about four o'clock in the evening, raining all evening and all night. It was very cold and we came very near freezing to death. At that springtime period several horses and cattle died of the cold. Every horse that we rode that bitter night was unfit for service the balance of the trip, so dreadful was the exposure. You understand cattle drift before wind-driven rain, and by morning we were at Hutto, eight miles away; we had had no supper and no breakfast, and not until noon did we have anything to eat. When these "drifts" take place every man and the boss is in front of the herd, holding them as much as possible; there are no shifts then, but every man to his post all night long; and the nights are long, too. On this memorable night I well recall my associates: M. A. Withers, in charge ; G. B. Withers, G. W. Brock, A. N.


Eustace, C. W. Pope, W. M. Ellison, Joe Lewis, the scout; Barney Roland, better known as "Pard" ; and Edmundo Martinez, the Mexican horse wrangler. Next day it was still bitterly cold, but the rain had let up, leaving that country covered with water. About noon we got back to camp and our appetites, always good, were now ravenous, and we looked forward to boiling coffee and hot grub of some kind. Instead, imagine our disappointment at finding the trifling cook housed up in the wagon covered in his blankets, and hadn't prepared a thing— hadn't even started a fire. Mr. Withers, always mindful of his men, was outraged and hauled him out of there with a demand to know why he didn't have the boys something to eat. He evasively replied that he couldn't build a fire in that water. Mr. Withers gave him his time and told him to "light a shuck." I can see that cook now making it over those hog-wallows, filled with water, to the nearest town. Under a camp wagon is usually suspended an old cowhide called the "caboose," and in that we throw stray pieces of wood, etc., as long as we are in a country where it can be had, just for use in such emergencies. It came in handy that time, sure, and some of the boys got it out, and with a lavish use of the oil can, we soon had things going, some of the boys doing the cooking. We were not particular and after a hearty meal our spirits were up again ready for any turn, of fate in the cowboy's lot. The next day we picked up a boy from old Gonzales County, filled with the spirit of adventure, by the name of Joe Knowles, and he cooked the balance of the way up. He was a good lad and some of the boys have seen him since, just lately, and he is doing well, we are glad to know.

We went the old Chisholm Trail and crossed the river at Red River Station. Nothing exciting occurred until we got to Turkey Creek, Indian Territory. There the trail had been changed to turn northwest and hit the western trail at the Longhorn Roundup on the Cimarron.


The new trail had been marked out by a buffalo head set up about every half of a mile.

It was a hundred miles from Turkey Creek to Longhorn Roundup. We arrived at Dodge City early in July, sold our steer yearlings there to the well-known cattle firm of Day Brothers, moved on up to the Smoky River, sold the cows to J. R. Blocker, then lit out for Ogallala, Nebraska. At about thirty miles from the last named place we pitched camp about a mile from the spring, which, curiously enough, opens up right in the bald prairie and forms the head of the stream known as Stinking Water. Here I had an experience with lightning that I know rivals the experience of any man who ever went up the trail. How we escaped death I have never understood. The storm hit us about 12 o 'clock at night. There was some rain, and to the northwest I noticed just a few little bats of lightning. Then it hit us in full fury and we were in the midst of a wonderful electrical storm. We had the following varieties of lightning, all playing close at hand, I tell you : It first commenced like flash lightning, then came forked lightning, then chain lightning, followed by the peculiar blue lightning. After that show it rapidly developed into ball lightning, which rolled along the ground. After that spark lightning; then, most wonderful of all, it settled down on us like a fog. The air smelled of burning sulphur ; you could see it on the horns of the cattle, the ears of our horses and the brim of our hats. It grew so warm we thought we might burn up with it, and M. A. Withers and Joe Lewis, old-timers, told me afterwards that they never had seen the like in all of their experiences. Needless to say, we were all on guard that night. The cattle did not give us so much trouble as the constant flashes keeping them moving so much. We delivered at Ogallala and lit out for Texas.

Under the same leadership we drove two herds in 1880 to Fort Griffin, going what was known as the Western


Trail. We threw them together at Fort Griffin, M. A. Withers taking full charge. There were about 4,500 mixed cattle in that herd. It looked like a "roundup" when turning them off of the bedding ground. When we arrived at Beaver Creek, near Pease River, we had a terrible rain, a veritable cloudburst ; raining all day, all night and all next day. The ground got so soft it was belly deep to a horse, and they would give out in a short distance, as tough as they were. For two days and nights we were without sleep. We were in the saddle all of the time except when we snatched a bite to eat, and to change saddle horses. The prairie was simply covered with prairie dogs, which had been run out of their homes in the ground by the water.

On this trip when we left Washita, we were expecting to find plenty of water at the South Canadian, and found it as dry as a powder house. That was nearly thirty miles through the hot sun dunes to Wolf Creek—sixty- five miles without any water. The cattle milled all night, suffering for water, and "lowed" piteously. Next morning we hit the trail early. Late that evening we arrived at the brow of the old slope, down to Wolf Creek, with six men ahead to hold the lead cattle back. They made a run for the water, which they had smelled for some distance, ran through an Indian camp, stampeding the Indians and their horses. Cattle and men all went off in the river together.

Here we sold the cows— about five hundred— cutting them out of the great herd. Then we mosied along up to Dodge on the Arkansas, camped just opposite old Fort Dodge, five miles down the river. Held there for ten days. On the Fourth of July, 1880, about two o'clock in the evening, the awfulest hailstorm came up a man ever saw. The hailstones nearly beat us to death ; it knocked over jackrabbits like taking them off with a rifle. It even killed a few yearlings and many fleet antelopes, but the cow hands had to stick to their posts, although we nearly


froze to death— on the Fourth of July. We had knots and scars all over our hands and backs. The ice lay about four inches deep on the ground next morning. Ten miles back, at Mulberry, next morning we found ourselves when day broke. It was so dark during that storm, in the daytime, that you could not see a man ten feet away. We had no supper nor breakfast; getting back to camp next morning at ten we found the cook fixing to leave, thinking surely that all the men had been killed. We were a hardy lot or we should have been, no doubt. No wonder "tenderfeet" did not survive those experiences.

I guess this about concludes my story. I met many brave and fearless men during those times. I want to say in conclusion that many of these men were tenderhearted and as gentle as a woman ; they were rough outside but refined in heart and soul. Of all of them I shall always remember Mark Withers, who was always thoughtful of and devoted to his men.


By Fred E. Sutton of Oklahoma City, Okla.

I received a letter from your president, Mr. George W. Saunders, asking for a little story of the most exciting incident that I can recall, which occurred during our cowboy days. As I was at an excitable age and working out of Dodge City, Kansas, which, to put it mildly, was an exciting town, it is a little hard to decide which particular incident to tell about. But one that was indeed interesting to me I believe will be of some interest to you and your readers. It took place in the fall of '81, when fifty other punchers and myself were rounding up some thirty thousand head of cattle for Jesse Evans, in New Mexico, during which we had considerable trouble with a bunch of outlaws and cattle rustlers headed and controlled by the notorious "Billy the Kid."


For the information of those who are not familiar with his history, I will say that his name was William H. Bonney. He was born in New York City on July 9, 1859, and at the age of twelve he killed a boy companion with a pocket knife, after which he escaped and went to Kansas, stopping near Atchison (where the writer then lived), where he worked on a farm for a year and a half. Leaving there he went to New Mexico and went to work on a ranch. He stayed until the fall of '79, when, after a fancied slight, he fell out with a rancher, whom he killed, and from that day on he was an Ishmaelite—his hand against every man and every man's hand against him.

After killing the rancher he surrounded himself with a bunch of the toughest characters to be found on the frontier. His stronghold was the Pecos Valley, where he drank, gambled, stole cattle and murdered all that he fell out with until, at the age of twenty-two, his victims numbered the same as his years.

In the latter part of 1880, a then noted frontier officer by the name of Pat Garrett was detailed to bring "The Kid" in, dead or alive, and as he knew our boys had been bothered a great deal and had lost several cattle; he came to our camp for help. I was detailed as one of the posse to go with Garrett, and we finally located the outlaw in a ranch house about forty miles from White Oaks. After surrounding them a halt was called for a parley, during which "Billy the Kid" sent out word by a Mexican outlaw by the name of Jose Martinez, one of his leaders, that if Garrett would send the writer, who was known as " The Crooked S Kid," and Jimmy Carlyle, a young cowboy, to the house he would try and come to some kind of an agreement. Garrett readily consented to this, as he knew his men and those of "The Kid," and he knew a battle meant death to many. Leaving our guns behind, Jimmy and I went to the house, where we found as tough a bunch of outlaws, gun fighters, and


cattle thieves as ever infested a country, or were ever congregated in a space of that size. After an hour spent in propositions and counter-propositions, we agreed to disagree, and started back to our own crowd with the promise of not being fired on until we reached them. But we had only traversed about three-fourths of the distance when there was an avalanche of lead sent in our direction, and poor Jimmy, Sheriff William Bradley, and a ranchman by the name of George Hindman, were instantly killed. Our posse then withdrew.

The killing inflamed the whole Southwest, as all of the dead men were fine men and, with the exception of Jimmy, all had families.

After a few days of rest, Garrett started out with the avowed intention of staying on the trail until he got The Kid," either dead or alive, and in the summer of 1882 he located him at Sumner, New Mexico, and killed him first reading the warrant to him afterwards.

Pat Garrett was one of the bravest of frontier officers, and one who never took advantage of an enemy, no matter what the circumstances or provocation. A short time later he was killed by an outlaw by the name of Wayne Brazel, at Las Cruces, New Mexico, where his grave is now marked by a monument erected by the people of that state, who knew and loved him.

I do not know of a more exciting time for yours truly than when "Billy the Kid" and his grand aggregation of murderers and cow thieves opened fire on poor Jimmy Carlyle and me, and do not know why I was not killed, but such is the case, and in a few weeks we were on our way to Dodge City by way of the Chisholm Trail with thirty thousand head of cattle rounded up in New Mexico and Texas.

If this little story comes to the eye of any of the oldtime boys who were on this drive with me, I would certainly be glad to have them drop me a line.



By John James Haynes of 308 Arden Grove,
San Antonio, Texas

I was born in the Republic of Texas, August 6, 1843, where Gonzales is now located. My father, Charles Haynes, who arrived in Texas some ten years previous, risked his life in helping Texas to gain her independence from Mexico. I was raised in Llano County, then on the frontier. When I was quite small I was taught to ride, shoot, hunt and run wild cattle, and all the other things necessary to withstand the requirements of those strenuous times. At a very early age my father presented each of his three sons with a gun, and as he was a mechanic and smith by trade, he made for each of us a long "Bowie" knife, and gave instructions how to use it. The rule in those days was to use the "Bowie" knife and save powder and shot. I have been in many close quarters when that knife came in mighty handy, for in my time I have killed every kind of wild animal that roamed in this wild country. Besides the wild animals we had worse foes to contend with— the savage Indians, who often made raids upon the white settlements. But as this writing is for our experiences with cattle on and off the trail, I will confine myself to those experiences.

When I was eighteen years old I joined the Confederate Army and was sent out of the State. I served the entire four years of that desperate struggle, and came home with a crippled arm. When we were discharged we were given transportation home, as far as the train went, and it didn't go far into Texas in those days. We came by water to Galveston, and while our "high up" officers were having a "peace treaty" somewhere in town, we "high up privates of the rear ranks" decided we had been away from home long enough, and as we did not see anything of special interest or excitement to


us there, we concluded to leave the "peace subject" with the officers, so we captured a waiting train and ordered the engineer to "charge," which order was promptly obeyed. When any of the boys reached a point anywhere near a bee-line to his home, he would pull the bellcord and drop off. I fell off at Brenham, which was the end of the road at that time. From Brenham I went by stage to Austin and from Austin I took the "ankle express" for my home in Llano County, seventy-five miles away. After a tramp, tramp, tramp with the boys in gray for four long years, I was alone now, but the thoughts of getting home spurred me on, and I did not mind the fatigue as I covered the distance. One night I .stopped at what was known as "Dead Man's Water Hole," socalled from the fact that the body of an unidentified man was once found there. I used a soft log that night for my pillow, and slept to the tunes of the hoot owls and the coyote wolves. When I reached home I found my neighborhood was still being raided by hostile Indians. I was soon rigged out with a new saddle, horse and gun, and ready to defend my home against the red men. But I realized that I must seek a livelihood, so, in company with my younger brother, Charlie Haynes, and Harve Putman, we decided to go out and round up mavericks and drive them up the trail. Each of us having secured two ponies and a pack horse and other equipment for a long camping trip, we started out, establishing our camp in the forks of the North and South Llano Rivers where Junction City now stands. At that time there were no fences and very few ranches in that region. The cattle from the open country of the north and northwest had drifted into that wild and unsettled wilderness without being sought after and naturally had become very wild. But we came with the intention of securing our herd, despite the wildness of the brutes. At a point near our camp we found a natural trap that was of material assistance to us. It consisted of a long strip of land about


twenty-five feet wide, with a deep hole of water on one side and a very high bluff on the other. This was the watering place for the cattle of that particular range. We built a pen and fenced in one end of this natural chute, leaving the other end open so that when a bunch of cattle came down for water we crowded in on them and ran them into our pen through the trap. We often started after them out on the range, and in order to get away from us, they would make for the water hole, and right into our trap they would go. We usually kept them in this pen without water or grass until they became tame enough to drive to our other pens some distance away, when, of course, they were then driven regularly for water and grazing. We kept this up until we had about a thousand head of maverick yearlings.

Harve Putman and my brother, Charlie, decided to sell their undivided interest in these yearlings, and John Putnam and myself bought them for $2.50 per head, on credit, to be paid for on our return from the Kansas market. We drove the herd by way of Fort Worth and crossed the Texas line at Red River Station. We put a bell on an old cow for a leader, and when a yearling got lost from the herd, and came within hearing of that bell it generally came back to the herd. We reached Abilene, Kansas, with our yearlings in good shape, and we sold them for eight dollars per head. We found ourselves in possession of $8,000, and had started out without a dollar. But any old trail driver who found himself rich in Abilene, Kansas, in 1871, knows the rest.

In 1872 my brother, Charlie, and I took a mixed herd of about a thousand head up the trail. This time we made a general round-up. It was the custom in those days for the party or parties getting up a round-up to take along cattle belonging to people they knew. Owners were glad to have them driven to market and sold. The distance between ranches was so great that a consultation was not possible every time, and it was usually left


to the driver's own judgment. Be it said to the credit of those early cowmen, every one was honest with his neighbor and trusted each other absolutely. The only requirement of the law was that the cattle be inspected by the county inspector, the marks and brands being recorded, and it was agreed among the stockmen that certain value be placed on certain grades, ages, etc., as assessed by the assessor. After driving the cattle up the trail to market, we then, on our return home, paid for cattle as the claimants appeared, according to the assess- ment, our profit being the selling price, together with those not claimed or unknown.

Our second trip was somewhat different from the first one on account of having so many mixed cattle in the herd. They were easily stampeded by the smell of buf- falo, and other things encountered on the trail. We had several storms on this trip. The lightning during these storms seemed to be playing all over the heads and horns of the cattle, and the loud claps of thunder greatly dis- turbed them, and often caused a stampede. When cattle stampede they all move in one direction, with the exact- ness and swiftness of one body. During a storm we would ride among them, doing our best to get them set- tled, but in the darkness of the night, the blinding rain, loud peals of thunder, with vivid flashes of lightning to keep them excited, our efforts were often of no avail. When we saw that they were going, in spite of all we could do, we left two of our Mexican cow hands to "tough it out" with them. No matter how many miles away we found the herd the next day, the faithful Mexicans were still with it.

In a mixed herd many calves were born on the trip, and it was the custom to kill them before starting the herd each morning. Some outfits tried taking along a wagon for the purpose of saving the calves, but it did not pay.

We drove this second herd to Council Grove, Kansas,


on the Indian reservation, and as we did not find ready sale, the business men of that place secured permission for us to hold them there until the market opened. While we were in camp here an incident occurred that was a bit interesting to us. We had two Indian blankets which my brother had captured during a fight with Indians in Blanco County, Texas, some years before. In this fight the chief of the tribe had been killed. We used the blankets for saddle blankets, and one day we hung them out to dry, when an Indian on the reservation came along and saw them. He called others, and they had a general pow-wow over them, and the result was that they exchanged us two new government blankets for the Indian blankets. That night the Indians all got together and had a big war dance around those blankets. We found out later that the two blankets in question had belonged to their chief. Although we anticipated trouble with the redskins on this account, we were not molested, and we remained here for some time. As the market was crowded, we had to take our time and sell as the demand came for our cattle. In one deal we got a new wagon and a span of good mules. These mules were afterwards stolen by Indians from my brother's home in Blanco County, during a raid when the Indians killed a man named Hadden.

I was still in the cattle business in Edwards and Uvalde Counties as late as 1893. My brand was JOHN (connected), my first name, easily remembered by all who saw one of my cattle in these or adjoining counties. My daughters, Violet and Susie, had their own brands, JOHN (connected) and SUE, respectively.

Long live the Old Trail Drivers and their descendants.



By W. E. Laughlin of Bartlett, Texas

I made my first drive in 1877 with John Ellis from Live Oak County to Fort Worth.


In 1870 I made a drive with the Durant cattle from Williamson County to Taylor County.

I made my third drive in 1880 with Soules and Armstrong from Williamson County to Ogallala, Nebraska. We began making up this herd in February, started the drive in April, and reached our destination the following July. The drive was made from Williamson County to Callahan ; there the International Trail was taken up and we went by way of Fort Griffin, thence west of Fort Sill, across the Indian Territory, going into Kansas just east of Fort Elliot, and across the state by way of Fort Dodge, and on to Ogallala.


Sketch of John Young of Alpine, Texas

John Young was born at Lockhart, Texas, February 12, 1856, in a log cabin. He was raised in Bee and Refugio Counties, and went up the trail five times, with Simpson, Jim Reed, Jim Hall, Goodnight and Claire. He


was married to Miss Lizzie Drake at Tilden, Texas, November 28th, 1883, and has seven children living. Mr. Young has had many thrilling experiences on the range and on the trail, about the most exciting of which occurred on the Colorado River. He says :

"I have swam every river from the Rio Grande to the Platte, and came near losing my life while crossing a herd on the Colorado in 1880. The river was on a rampage and about four hundred yards wide. When in midstream a drifting treetop brushed me off my horse and sent me to the bottom. When I came to the surface my horse had gotten away and there was nothing for me to do but rely on myself, and although I was badly hurt from the contact with the limbs of the tree, I struck, out for the shore. My old friend, Gus Claire of Beeville, had witnessed the accident and started to me on his horse, but I had drifted several hundred yards down stream before he reached me. As he passed by I caught the horse by the tail, when suddenly we got into a swift eddy, which carried us under a bluff, where we could not land, and so we had to drift down stream until the eddy changed, and then swim back to the opposite side of the river."

Mr. Young has occupied a prominent place in cattle affairs in West Texas for many years. He is still the same old John Young the boys of the trail knew in those bygone days. It is his ambition and lifelong dream to at no distant day erect a cattlemen's hotel in San Antonio, on the site of the old Southern Hotel, which for many years was the headquarters for all visiting cowmen. With D. J. Woodward and T. A. Coleman, he owns a mountain of the finest marble in the world near Alpine, and these three gentlemen are endeavoring to secure title to the entire Southern Hotel block, where they propose to build a ten-story marble hotel to be used exclusively by cowmen, and where the Old Trail Drivers' reunions




would be held with all the pomp and ceremony of a royal fete. Negotiations are progressing, and it is safe to predict that this ambition of an old comrade will soon be realized.


By G. M. Carson of Rocksprings, Texas

I was raised at Blanco City, and at the age of twenty I started out to be a cowboy and go "up the trail" in company with my brother, R. P. Carson, J. J. Cage and Felix Stubbs. We went to Round Mountain, where Johnnie Blocker was receiving cattle, and he employed us at $30.00 per month and agreed to furnish us. He instructed us to meet him at the old Bundick ranch on the Perdinales River the 10th of March, 1878, to begin branding. We were right there on time, and found plenty to do. One day while engaged in branding, a fouryear-old cow refused to go into the chute, but made a run for Ab. Blocker, who lost no time in climbing to the very top of the high fence. She then turned in my direction, and I downed her with a stone which I threw with all my might. I thought I had killed her, and felt that I would be given a hasty discharge. I looked around to see Johnnie Blocker standing near, and he said in a very pleasant way, "Don't throw rocks at the cattle, boys," and I knew right then that my job was still secure. The cow recovered in a few minutes, and when she got to her feet again she made a bee-line for the chute. We put the reversed seven brand on her and gave her a free pass to Cheyenne. When we had finished branding we drove the cattle across the country between Austin and Lockhart and met another herd, where we cut the cattle and shaped up for the trail about the 15th of March. John Golden was boss, and we had about sixteen men in the crew. We pointed the herd, numbering about 3,000


head, north, crossing the Colorado River below Austin, and hit the long, lonesome trail for Cheyenne, Wyoming.

After being on the trail for some time the horse wrangler quit us, and the boss put me in charge of the horses, which I drove until we reached North Kansas.

During this drive, somewhere in the Indian Territory, we had a stampede one dark night and Felix Stubbs and a negro named Joe Tasby got lost from the herd and did not get back to us until late the next evening.

This being a good year for driving, everything moved along nicely until we reached Northern Kansas, where we waited for another herd, and when it came, we found there was a surplus of hands, so eight of us came back to Texas, reaching Austin about the first of July. After this I made several short drives, going with one herd from Frio County to Colorado City, Texas.

I have been engaged in the mercantile business at Rock Springs the past fifteen years


By J. A. Blythe of Del Rio, Texas

I went up the trail in 1876, 1877 and 1878. The first two trips were short, one to Fort Worth and one to Fort Dodge, but the last trip was long, starting on the 4th of March and ending on the 4th of July, when we were paid off in Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory. I traveled along the trail side by side with John R. Blocker, and was just below him when he had four horses killed by lightning in Sydney, Nebraska.

I remember one incident in particular that happened on this trip. A negro named Thad found a box containing a lot of snuff the other side of Fort Worth. It had probably fallen off a freight wagon. He was afraid to sell it as we passed through the Cross Timbers, although


I venture to say that at least nine women out of ten in that region used snuff in those days. But he finally disposed of it at Red River Station. At this point we had a big stampede one night, and a fellow tried to steal our remuda. Nothing further happened until we reached Dodge City, where we crossed the Arkansas River. It was my night off, and I went into Dodge with the boss, Sol West, to "whoop 'em up, Liza," but a big cloud came up after I had paid $1.25 for a haircut and shave, and I had to go back to the herd and stand guard all night during a severe storm. The next place we passed was Buffalo Station, where we delivered four hundred steers to Sparks and Taylor, then headed north to Ogallala, Nebraska, crossed the South Platte River, followed the Union Pacific Railroad to Big Springs, the point where Joel Collins had robbed the U. P. train and secured $80,000 in $20.00 gold pieces, and was later killed. We left the North Platte River and went up Pole Creek, but nothing of note happened until we reached Sydney, Nebraska, where a big storm came up and lightning killed the four horses for John R. Blocker. No one was hurt except the cook, who was slightly stunned by the shock. We delivered the cattle within twenty miles of Cheyenne, and all of the boys came back to Texas, except myself. I decided to remain with the same cattle, and we went to Powder River to locate a ranch, but the weather got so cold we located on the North Platte River. I spent the winter there, got homesick and came back to Texas.


By A. N. Eustace of Prairie Lea, Texas

I made my first trip up the trail in 1879, starting from Lockhart, Caldwell County, with M. A. Withers. We crossed the Colorado River at Webberville, and at Hutto we encountered a terrible hailstorm and rain, during


which our cattle drifted several miles, many of them getting across a little creek, which soon got on a rampage, after Green Mills, "Pard" Roland and I had crossed and were gathering the scattered herd. Green was riding his well-known pony, "Grunter." We were wet, cold, and hungry, but we had to stay with those cattle until the next morning before we could get back to the main herd. This was my first real experience with trail driving, and if I could have gone home right then I would not have been easily persuaded to go on that trip.

From Hutto we continued our course to Belton and Fort Worth. At this time Fort Worth was the terminus of the Texas & Pacific Railroad. Crossing the Red River at Red River Station, we traveled the old Chisholm Trail until we crossed the Canadian River. Here we quit the Chisholm Trail, going west and intersecting the Western Trail at Cimarron River, and thence to Dodge City, Kansas, where we delivered a part of our herd, taking the remainder to Buffalo, Kansas, on the K. P. Railroad. From here I returned home.

Our outfit was composed of M. A. Withers, Joe Lewis, Green Mills, Rus Withers, George Brock, Cal Polk, Barney Roland, Walter Ellison and myself.

In 1880 I made the second trip. This time we went the Western Trail, out by old Fort Griffin. We crossed the Red River at Doan's Store, going from there to Wolf Creek, Indian Territory, where we divided our herd, putting a part of the cattle with a herd belonging to W. T. Jackman. We delivered this herd at Ogallala, Nebraska.

In 1881 I made my third trip up the trail with J. R. Shanklin of Prairie Lea. We received a part of our herd at George Hindes' ranch in Atascosa County, completing it at Ellison's ranch in Caldwell County. This time we followed the Western Trail through to Ogallala, Nebraska.

In 1882 I was trail-bound again, and made my fourth trip with J. R. Shanklin. We received our herd in


Wharton County from Bob Stafford, and came out by Gonzales and Lockhart, from whence we traveled the Western Trail to Throckmorton County. Here I was taken with chills and had to return home.

In 1883 my fifth trip was made with R. W. Robinson, whose herd was received at Pearsall. We went out by Bandera and Kerrville to Runnels County, where we delivered a part of the herd to Doc Grounds, who lived about eighteen miles west of Abilene, Texas. From here I delivered the balance of the herd to J. R. Blocker in the Indian Territory, and returned to San Antonio with the outfit.

My next trip was in 1884, when I went with Giles Fenner. This year we shipped our herd from Austin County to Wichita Falls, driving from there to Ogallala, Nebraska. From Ogallala we went to Wyoming and delivered the herd to Dater Brothers on the Cheyenne River. From there I went with Captain Ellison to Running Water, Wyoming, to deliver another herd to Durgin Brothers and then came back home.

In 1886 I went with Giles Fenner, Joe Blocker, Driscoll and Davis. This herd we received at Texiketa ranch, twenty miles south of Stafford Station. We struck the west prong of the Nueces River at Kickapoo Springs, and continued up the river to its head, passed over the divide to the head of the Llano River, traveled down the Llano about forty miles to Green Lake, and from there went to Fort McKavett, where we crossed the San Saba River. This herd we delivered at Hugo, Colorado.

My last trip was made in 1887. I went with W. T. Jackman from Jeff Davis County. We shipped our herd from Toyah to Big Springs, and from there we went the extreme Western Trail across the plains to Trails City, Colorado. Our crowd was composed of W. T. Jackman, Mac Randle, John Street, Lum Hunt, Dick Craft, the cook, our Mexican hostler, Chapa, and two negroes, George Crunk and Burrel Moore.


Of course the life of a trail driver was made up of many hardships, but now as I recall the happy associations with those good old friends I can certainly say that my hardships were far outnumbered by the good old times spent on the trail.


By Sam Neill, La Pryor, Texas

SAM NEILL (and horse)

In the spring of 1880 I made my first trip up the trail, starting from old Mount Woodward ranch on the Leona River, in Frio County. We had 3,200 mixed cattle in the herd, which belonged to Captain John Lytle. Billy Henson was our corporal, or boss. We drove through to Ogallala, Nebraska, on the South Platte River, and delivered them to Jim Ellison. It took us five months and ten days to make the trip, and I was the only man that started with the herd and stayed with it until delivery was made. The boss was taken sick and had to quit. Near Dodge City, Kansas, one of our men, Otis Ivey, was killed by lightning, and within a very few days


afterward the last of the men who started. with the herd left, but I continued on the job.

With the exception of being badly frightened several times, we did not have much trouble with the Indians on this trip. I was just a mere boy at the time, but I believe this was the hardest trip I ever made. I missed going on herd only one single night during the entire journey. My guard was from two o'clock until daylight. From the time we started I was not inside of a house after we left Frio Town until we reached Ogallala. The last house I was in before I left was Tom Bibb's saloon in Frio Town, and the next was Tuck's saloon in Ogallala. This was a mighty long time between drinks.

I made several trips after this, the longest one being to the Cheyenne River, South Dakota. Gus Black was our boss on this trip. Gus is still living, rides horseback as well as he ever did, and looks after his cattle as actively as a young man.

I am now an old broken-down cow-puncher, and am working for Colonel Ike Pryor, one of the finest men in the world, on one of his ranches in Zavalla County. My postoffice address is La Pryor.


By J. M. Custer, Alias Bill Wilson

I was born in 1865 and got my first experience on the cow range in 1876. Captain Hall was moving cattle to West Texas from the Colorado River coast country, and as they passed through Live Oak County I joined them and worked with them through the fall of 1876. In 1877 I went to work for Dillard Fant, and John Dumant was my boss. When Fant sold out to George West I worked in the Mustang Camp on Spring Creek catching wild horses and breaking them. In 1879 I went up the trail


with horses for Mr. Neall, and we delivered at Dodge City, Kansas. On our way up we had several stampedes, but had no trouble with the Indians. In 1880 I again went up the trail, this time to Ogallala, Nebraska, and we had skirmishes with the redskins. One night I was on herd north of Doan's Store on Red River, near the mouth of Cold Water Creek, and had for a night mare a small Spanish mule. That mule smelled the Indians, his tail went right up against his belly, and it was-impossible to hold him. In fact, I did not try to hold him, just let him take the lead through the darkness, and we traveled all night. Next morning I found myself about twenty miles from camp. When I got back to the bunch we were short thirty-three head, so we started out to look for the lost horses. The boss sent me up the creek to the divide where there was no timber to hide in in case a fellow should get after a bunch of Indians. After riding about twenty-five miles up the creek, and reaching a point not far from the Indian Territory line, I discovered several Indians at a distance of— about 200 yards coming toward me, but we did not meet, for their guns looked as long as the Chisholm Trail, and I did not care for them to get in closer range. At that time I weighed only ninety-five pounds, but I picked up my pony on my spurs and when I let him down I went down his hind leg with my quirt. I pointed him back down the creek, with the yelling red devils in full chase, and I working in the lead. My boss had often told me that in a stampede I should stay in the lead, and I was bent on carrying out his instructions. Finally, after I had raced them for several miles, I came to a crossing in the creek, which was about forty feet wide and in deep sand. Here my horse gave up and refused to go further. I shook him up, but he had done his best, and that was all he could do. It was then up to me and the Indians to do the rest. So I went into a small ravine, took the cartridges out of my belt and put them in my hat, and waited for a fight,


but the red rascals went out of my sight, leaving me as mad as a hornet and wanting to scrap, for I had not had time to fight them during the chase.

I went back to South Texas in the fall of 1881, and worked on the mustang range again in 1882, when I got into trouble and had to leave that region, and was "on the dodge" for twelve years during which time I fought" cattle for nine years almost night and day. My little case of trouble caused a "moving" disposition to take a hold on me, and for two years it seemed that everywhere I went the officers were after me. During those two years I went under my own name, from place to place, and state to state, but they chased me out, so I returned to the plains, changed my name to Bill Wilson, and went up the trail several times, until 1892. During one of these drives I was in an Indian fight on the Canadian River. We had a stampede one night and lost a few head of cattle, and next day I was sent out to hunt for them. While riding down the river a bunch of Indians jumped me. We had a short race for a thicket of cottonwood trees. As usual, I worked in the lead, and when we got to the thicket I went into it like a rabbit. There were seven Indians in the party, and they immediately surrounded the thicket. I had dismounted, and had my Winchester ready, so when I saw one of the redskins standing up on his horse, I raised old "Betsy" and cracked down, and there was a dead Indian. For about thirty minutes we had a pretty lively time. The battle ended with five dead Indians and one scalp scratch on my head.

In 1885 I took a herd for Chadman Brothers to Butte, Montana. I delivered the herd, shot up the town, and rode out to camp. The next morning I went back and asked the amount of damage I owed for shooting a saloon glass to pieces. The bartender said $1,500.00. We asked him to take a drink. We took one more, and then took off down the trail.


The next year, 1886, I had charge of a herd of stock cattle and started from Las Vegas, New Mexico, to Nebraska. On this trip I killed a smart Mexican in a shooting scrape. I went out of there under fire, but I held my ground, as all of the Mexicans in that region were on my drag. But a boy raised on the frontiers of Texas always had a way to beat that kind of a game. As George Saunders said about Jack West: "If it did not go right, we always had a machine to make it go right." The kind of a machine the cow-puncher had was sometimes called a "cutter," and sometimes it was called a "hog-leg," but it was better known as a six-shooter gun, and we frequently had a use for it, for it was a "friend in need" in those days. The Western boys always stood pat no draw pat or show-down.

I ran a maverick brand on the head of Double Mountain Fork, on the 00 Range. 0. J. Warren was the owner. It got so big I lost my job and had to change my brand. That was my headquarters in winter after I got off the trail.

A great many so-called cowboys nowadays think it is fun to work cattle. It is really play, for they have nothing to do. In the early days we had no pens or railroads or wire fences. When we gathered cattle it was to hold them. Sometimes they would run all night. The boss would yell out to us, "Sing Sing to 'em, boys," and we would sing a song as only a cowboy can sing, but something would go wrong and they would be off on a rampage once more. The worse the weather the closer we would have to stay, for then was the time they gave the most trouble. Once I was on guard six days and nights without going to bed.

This was written in September, 1919, just after I had passed through a great Gulf storm, in which we lost everything, house washed away, and everything lost.. There are nine in my family, but I did not lose any of them. We were in the storm for twenty hours and


during that fearful period I thought of the old times on the trail, when the rain, hail and thunderstorms used to play such havoc with us. Those were strenuous times, and we endured many hardships that will never be recorded for the perusal of oncoming generations, but, just the same, we had our day, and the world is better for it.


By A. Huffmeyer of San Antonio, Texas

My first trip up the trail was in 1876 with a herd of 1,600 steers belonging to Woodward and Oge of Frio County, the man in charge


being Dick Crews. We left the ranch on the Frio River, four miles above Frio town, on the 14th of March and delivered the herd at Fort Sill in the Indian Territory to the agent at the fort seven weeks after we left the ranch. We had considerable trouble just after starting until we got out of the brush, after which we got along nicely. The weather was fine, no severe storms or cycylones to contend with. These cattle were purchased by the government for the Tonkaway tribe of Indians. After delivering we started back home with our entire outfit, eleven men and the cook. We. reached home safely and immediately went to work on the ranch.

In the spring of 1877 we commenced rounding up another herd, and were ready to make the start by the 15th of March. Gus Black, who now lives at Eagle Pass,


was in charge of this herd, and we had, as on the previous drive, eleven men in the outfit. We had the same trouble with the cattle as on our first trip, but as soon as we reached the open country they moved along well. This herd was headed for Dodge City, on the Arkansas River, and we reached our destination about the 20th of the following July, with our cattle in better shape than when we started. Mr. Oge, who was in Dodge City awaiting our arrival, came out to meet us and remained with us until we delivered. Dodge City was then a wide-open town. Gambling and fandangoes were in full blast. While we were there two men were killed in a saloon row.

The cook and horse wrangler started back over the trail with our saddles and outfits with them, and the balance of us returned on the train.

The next year, 1878, we gathered our herd early and were ready to start by the first of March. This herd was taken through by Virgil Johnson, who died several years ago. We had about two thousand head of mixed cows and steers. It happened to be a wet season and we lost a great deal of sleep from the very start until we reached Red River, on account of the excessive rains. At Red River Station we found about a dozen herds scattered over the country waiting f or the rise in Red River to run down so they could cross that stream. While we were here a severe thunderstorm came up and rain fell in torrents. While it was in progress I could see the lightning playing on the brim of my hat and the tips of my horse's ears. Suddenly a terrific bolt of lightning struck right in our midst and killed nine of our best cattle. It stunned my horse and he fell to the ground, but was up in an instant and ready to go. The cattle stampeded and scattered and it was all that we could do to keep ahead of them. After running them for a mile or more, every man found that he had a bunch of his own to look after, they were so badly scattered and frightened. I managed to hold 236 head the balance of the night, and


when daylight came we worked the bunches back together and made a count and found that we had lost over three hundred head, which meant some tall rustling for the boys. Before night we had rounded up all of the strays except about forty head, which we lost entirely. We waited a couple of days longer for the river to fall, but it seemed to keep rising, so Mr. Johnson decided to ferry our chuck wagon over and swim the herd across. When we struck the stream it was bank full, with a sandbar (quicksand) ;showing in the middle of the river. In order to get the cattle to take the water we brought our work oxen down and started them across. They seemed to know just what we wanted, for when they reached the edge of the water they walked right out into the deep current and began swimming across, the balance of the herd following. Four of our steers stopped on the bar of quicksand and bogged down and we had to swim out and extricate them after we had all the others on the far side. Every one of them showed fight when we pulled him out of the quicksand, and took right after us, and we had to hustle to keep out of reach. On the other side of 'the river we found the bottoms full of ripe wild plums and enjoyed quite a treat.

When we took the trail again we could see the Wichita Mountains in the distance, about seventy-five miles away. We knew the trail passed along the foot of those mountains, but on account of water the trail made a big curve to the right, which made it a longer drive, so in order to save time, Mr. Johnson decided to try to go straight through on a bee-line to the foot of the Wichitas, and thus save several days. It proved to be a bad venture, for we traveled without water for two days, not a drop for the cattle to drink or with which to quench our thirst. We had to keep traveling, and by noon the third day our herd was strung out for fully two miles, with the big steers in the lead going like race horses, and the old dogies bringing up the rear. I happened to be on the


point and about noon I saw the leaders throw up their heads and start to run. Mr. Johnson said, "They They smell water," and, sure enough, after crossing a ridge we found a little stream of clear sweet water. We camped right there that day and all of the next to allow our stock to rest. The country was open and was covered with the finest grass I ever saw. We reached the Wichita Mountains and got back on the old trail. While traveling along we permitted our herd to scatter and graze, and as we were proceeding slowly we discovered a brown bunch of something on a ridge about a mile away. It turned out to be a herd of buffalo, which were the first I had ever seen. We decided to go forth and kill some of the animals and, accordingly, several of us mounted fresh horses and put out to go around them and head them toward our herd so the other boys could get a chance to kill some of them. But when within two hundred yards of the buffalo they saw us coming and struck a bee-line for the north pole. We yelled and fired at them without result, they kept on traveling. I gave out of ammunition and was determined not to go back empty-handed, so I took down my lariat and selected a young bull about two years old, and soon had him lassoed, but found out that I was not fooling with a two-year-old cow brute. I think I let that bull run over my rope a dozen times and threw him each time, but he would be up in an instant, and I just could not hold him. I called Shelby to my assistance, and the two of us finally managed to get him down and cut his throat. Shelby went back to. the herd while I remained and skinned the buffalo and had him ready to load into the wagon when it came along. This same young man (Shelby) began bragging about the fine young horse he owned and said he would bet any man $10.00 that he could catch an antelope on him, so one of the boys took the bet, and the next day the race came off. We espied a bunch of antelope on a ridge 400 or 500 yards away, and Shelby put out in their direction. As


soon as they saw him coming they scampered away due north. The country was almost a level plain, but there were a few ridges, and for quite a while we could. see the race, but finally Shelby passed out of sight. We kept grazing the herd along, all the time watching for Shelby, and after a long time he hove in sight away off to the north and coming in our direction on the right side of the herd with the antelope leading the race by some 300 yards. It is said that antelope as well as other wild animals have a certain range, and it seemed so in this case, for when Shelby struck out after this one it made a big circle and came right back to where we first saw it. We could see that Shelby was losing ground, and the antelope was about all in, for its tongue was hanging out of its mouth when it came by us, and it was panting furiously. It did not seem to pay any attention to our herd or the men around it, so Johnson told a Mexican to go out and lasso it. He succeeded in doing so in a very f ew minutes. Poor old Shelby came back with his horse completely fagged out, and lost the ten dollars. His horse did not fully recover from the chase for over two weeks.

While we were in the Osage Nation an Indian chief and four bucks came to our camp one day and wanted us to give them a steer or two f or allowing us to graze our cattle through their reservation. Mr. Johnson refused to give them any, and the Indians went away in an ugly humor, threatening to come back and stampede our herd that night and get one anyhow. Mr. Johnson told them to just try that trick and pointed to our Winchesters. Of course we expected trouble, but the Indians failed to carry out their threat.

Everything went along smoothly after that. It rained on us frequently, but only showers. As we were going along through a little creek bottom after a shower one morning we discovered a lot of wild turkeys, and I decided to catch a gobbler, and gave chase after a big fellow. After running him for quite a while I managed to


hit him on the head with the butt end of my quirt. That night we had stewed wild turkey on our menu. for a change.

We crossed over the line into Kansas, and now and then we could see a little 14 x 16 box house where some farmer had located his pre-emption, and near it would be a few acres in a field, but no trees, fences or other improvements. These squatters were not very friendly toward the Texas cowboys.

We reached Nebraska in the early part of June, and one morning a regular blizzard came upon us, and for about two hours we had sleet striking us in the face. Our overcoats were rolled up in the wagon, so we just had to grin and bear it. We reached the American River that day and found a few cottonwood trees, but the limbs we gathered with which to make a fire and warm our chilled bodies would not burn, and we had to "tough it out." When we reached the Platte River we found. protection for our herd in the draws or ravines there. We delivered the herd at Ogallala and my uncle, Mr. Oge, sold all of the cow ponies and outfit and all hands took the train for home.

This was my last experience on the trail. After reaching San Antonio I went to Bandera and joined my brother in the mercantile business in 1878.


May his life's future pathway with roses be strewn,
Whose thorns have all been pruned away;
May .sunshine abide when its shadows have flown—
Is the blessing I wish him today.

—BRANCH ISABELL, Odessa, Texas.



By W. D. H. Saunders, 721 Rigsby Avenue,
San Antonio, Texas

I was born in Yalobusha County, Mississippi, March 1, 1845, and came to Texas with my parents in 1850, locating in Gonzales County. Although quite small at that time, I remember when crossing the Mississippi River at Vicksburg, a fire started on the boat and there was great excitement on board. The passengers and crew succeeded in extinguishing the fire before it gained much headway. We moved to Goliad County in 1859.

I was married June 27, 1866, to Miss Annie New in Bee County, Texas. To us were born twelve children, eleven of whom are yet living. I was engaged in the mercantile business in Bee County several years, later moving to Sayers, Bexar County, in 1884, where I was postmaster and merchant for twenty years. I moved to San Antonio in 1919. T. B. Saunders, a prominent business man of Fort Worth, is my son.

In October, 1862, I left Goliad with Jim Borroum and Monroe Choate with eight hundred beeves for Mississippi.

We crossed the Guadalupe River at Clinton and went to Sweet Home, in Lavaca County, where we rented a field in which to pen our cattle. In this field was a large haystack. The cattle became frightened at this haystack and stampeded. Next morning we were eight miles from camp and lost three hundred of the beeves. We remained there several days to round up our cattle, and then started on our trip, crossing the Colorado at Columbus, the Brazos at Richmond, the Trinity at Liberty, the Natchez at Beaumont, the Sabine near Orange, and then passed into Louisiana, after which we crossed the Culeshoe River and passed through Opelousas, where we met Crump and Fleming, who bought half interest in


our herd, and put in three hundred more, making eleven hundred in all.

When we were near the Mississippi River the Confederate soldiers arrested all of our crowd, thinking we were trying to get the beeves to the Yankees. They took the owners of the herd to Alexandria and held the rest of us four or five days, but as they could not prove anything, we were all released and permitted to pursue our journey. When we reached the Mississippi a thousand of the beeves took the water and easily swam across, but we had to sell one hundred on this side of the river, as we could not get them across. We had an old negro with us who was very excitable, and was always uneasy for fear the Yankees would get him, and we had a great deal of difficulty in keeping him with us.

We found sugar mills at all of the large plantations and whenever we stopped at a mill our boys were told to "help themselves," which they usually did, with the result that they often ate too much and were sick from the effects of it.

After we crossed the Mississippi the Confederate soldiers arrested us again, and took our men to Fort Hudson, where they kept them several days, but, as in the former case, they found nothing against us and turned us loose. At Woodville, Mississippi, the cattle were divided, and Borroum and Choate sold theirs to parties there. Crum and Fleming went on to Mobile, Alabama, where they sold their cattle.

At Woodville we stayed at a plantation owned by Dr. Simms. The fence around this plantation was made of hedges. One night Dr. Simms persuaded Upshur Brookin and myself to go bird hunting. We had to carry a light and kill the birds with a stick. We succeeded in killing but one bird, and the next morning at breakfast Upshur found that bird on his plate. Dr. Simms had a large canebreak on his farm where he kept his mules and horses. The doctor had never seen a hair rope, so while


we were there he drove up all of his horses and had us trim their manes and tails to get hair and make a rope for him.

Upshur Brookin, J. B. New and myself came home together. We crossed the Mississippi with our horses on a ferry boat. The water came within two inches of the top of the boat and I almost knew we would sink before we got across. I reached home in January and enlisted in the army at Corpus Christi, February 23, 1863, when I was just seventeen years old.


Below is a short sketch of some of the incidents of trail life as related and experienced by Mr. James Gibson of Alice, Texas.

James Gibson, born in Maryland and reared in Virginia, came to Texas as a young boy in the early seventies.

It was solely for the love of adventure that he came, seeking what the new country might have in store for him. And, although his father was adverse to having him come to a strange new country, he gave him means for the trip and a letter of introduction to Major Hutchinson of San Marcos, who had been a law student under an uncle in Charleston, Virginia.


JAMES GIBSON Mr. Gibson and a distant relative by name of Oscar Flagg made the trip together. They landed at Galveston, Texas, and from there made their way to San Marcos,


but, wanting to be without restriction, the letter to Major Hutchinson was never presented; and as the means for the trip had become exhausted, these boys went about seeking whatever employment they might find. Their first work was with Mr. H. C. Story of San Marcos, now a prominent stockman.

The first position with a "trip up the trail" was made with Coon Dunman of Refugio, Mr. Gibson driving the remuda. This position he liked, as he was relieved of night herding, except in nights of storm, when all hands were called upon to hold the cattle. This herd was driven to Coleman City, and delivered to an English syndicate, after which he returned to Sweet Home, Lavaca County, and worked on the Willis McCutcheon ranch.

Later, while working as ranch foreman for D. R. Fant, on his Live Oak ranch, Mr. Gibson was one evening "held up" by two bandits upon returning home from doctoring horses in a lower pasture. The outlaws demanded his gun, and when told that he had none, then demanded his new saddle, but after they had been made to see that they already had possessed themselves of all else he had except that, they decided to let him keep it, and started on their way.

Upon entering the ranch it was found to have been stripped of all its choicest possessions. Mr. Gibson then set out for the nearest camp to find help, but being unable to get any, borrowed from George S. Fokes his gun and fourteen cartridges (all he had) and returned to the ranch. Imagine his surprise upon entering the home pasture to find camping beside the gate the same men who had caused him so much trouble the day before. They again demanded the saddle, evidently censuring themselves for their generosity of the day before, but being now in possession of a gun, he refused, which, as the usual thing, brought the guns of both sides into play. Mr. Gibson, seeing a big tree nearby, gained that and, shooting from behind its protecting trunk, finally


succeeded in putting them to rout. As soon as possible he set out for the nearest ranch, owned by John Edwards, and there found that Dave Walton, at that time sheriff of Bee County, had the day before tried to arrest the same parties for like depredations. Edwards joined him and later a passe composed of Ed and Tom Lasater, the Coker boys and a number of others, surrounded the house of the bandits, but found that they had moved on. This raid and its subsequent excitement led to the acquaintance of Doss and Garrett Van Meter and their widowed mother, Mrs. E. V. Van Meter, of that place.

It was in the later years to their home and its associations that Mr. Gibson looks back as being one of the very brightest spots in the memory of his young manhood.

The following spring, however, being unable to resist the tinkle of the old bell-mare, Mr. Gibson made the second trip up the trail, this time with Nance and Mitchell, driving cattle. He pointed herd all the way with a boy by the name of John Williams guarding the opposite point. They had a great deal of rain and hail during this trip, and one day as they were passing through the Indian country near the Wichita Mountains, a funny incident took place.

A bunch of Indians rode up behind Mr. Gibson and grunted in their Indian fashion, "How John?" and after lingering a while asked such questions as, "No cara swap horses?" "Dimme Cartuches " and "Unde Campo?" went over to Williams and hailed him by "How John!" As soon as they rode away Williams came over and said, "Jim, those d—ned Indians know me," and when Mr. Gibson expressed surprise and asked where he had met them, said, "I never seen the d—d fools before, but they called me John." Later this circumstance was related in camp to the old trail hands, who whooped and yelled and seemed to consider it a good joke, and when they had quieted enough so as to be understood,


told them that Indians saluted all white men by, "How John !"

The next year Mr. Gibson's work was with the Boyce Bros., and as soon as the grass was green they proceeded to Cuero, there to procure the outfit for the trail. This consisted of wagons, harness, saddles, etc., and, were bought from John Stratton, who at that time had the largest outfitting store in this part of the country.

The trip was with horses, some five hundred head of which had been bought from Ed Corkill of Conception. These horses were delivered at Dodge City, Kansas, going by way of San Antonio, Kerrville, Soleman City, Vernon and Doan's Store, an Indian trading store on Red River. There the trails forked, one going to Mobeetie and the other by the Wichita Mountains. The delivery of horses took three months, while that of cattle took four.

It was on this trip one night that a severe thunderstorm came up. The horses had been turned loose on the tableland when, just before the storm started, a deer. jumped up in front of the herd and caused them to stampede. They ran directly by camp, causing the remuda. to join them and, as they had not been hobbled for the night, came near leaving the cowboys all afoot, the remuda man's horse being the only one staked. And as one of the boys ran to mount him he, catching the conagion of fright, pulled up his stake and went rushing y camp. The negro cook, taking in the seriousness of the situation, grabbed the rope and went bumping along for about a hundred yards before he could stop him. He then mounted and assisted in trying to stop the herd that had by this time crossed the creek. The storm, however, growing in intensity, compelled an early return to camp with only a few saddle horses.

Everyone spent a very restless night confronted with the thought that these few horses constituted their all and that it was two hundred miles to the nearest pasture


fence south, and all stampeded horses on the trail go back south towards Texas.

Daylight found them in their saddles eagerly searching for tracks and after two days hunting found all but three head. The following spring, however, Jim Mus- sett, a friend, found the three missing horses in the general roundup with the Indians, and after selling them sent the money to the owners. This was considered a very lucky stampede.

Mr. Gibson made eight trips with horses. Horses in those days were driven by the thousands and sold to early settlers in job lots in Western Kansas and Nebraska.

Jim Dobie, Frank Byler and Boyce Bros. were among some of the most important horse trail drivers. When applying to any of the above mentioned men for a trail job, it was useless to ask what horse one might ride, for the reply would invariably be "Throw Throw your rope and whatever it falls on, fork him." On one of these trips a laughable thing took place. The cook had quit for the good reason that his pay had stopped and that necessitated the finding of another. A young man just arrived from the East was chosen for this position. After he had convinced the boys that, although he was no expert cook, he could boil water without burning it, the boss told him to cook for dinner red beans, bacon, coffee and dried apples. The cook, not knowing the habit of apples, filled the pot full and covered them with water. When they began to swell the pot began to overflow, and it was a funny sight witnessed by one of the boys in passing to see the tenderfoot frantically digging a hole in the sand and burying the surplus supply. At first the coffee was all grounds, the bread like leather and the beans rattled down one's throat, but, being a persevering kind of a fellow, by the next roundup he had become a really good cook.

One year the outfit had a mascot in the form of a little


rooster that had been presented by Ben Jones of Oakville, now deceased, to Mr. Gibson. It was a source of pleasure and amusement to the whole camp, and the Indians en route were astonished to see a chicken with a cow outfit, so far from civilization. His early morning crowing brought no response, as the nearest ranch was over two hundred miles away. He had the misfortune once to hang by one foot all night from the hound of the wagon, his roost. A storm coming up during the night had blown him off and when morning came he looked as if he had been to an Irish wake. He was tenderly cared for by the boys and the cook and before long was his normal bright self again, making the trip to Dodge City and back to Cuero with the cook.

Mr. Gibson's last trip was with horses in 1888, and he found it very difficult to get through as the man with the hoe had taken the country, and the old trail had all been fenced up, so the drive overland from Texas to Kansas was over and the cattle then, as now, must be routed by way of the iron horse.

It has been in this manner for the past twelve years, having holdings in two ranches, that Mr. Gibson, in partnership with Richard King, Jr., grandson of Mrs. H. M. King of Santa Gertrudes ranch, has conducted his cattle business and still classes himself as "one of the cow- boys."


By L. A. Franks of Pleasanton, Texas

In 1865 occurred one of those sad frontier tragedies where the settlers were unable to sustain themselves in an Indian battle, and wives and mothers were made to mourn for loved ones who never returned except as mangled or inanimate bodies. This noted fight occurred on


the 4th day of July in the above named year near the mouth of the Leona River in Frio County. The settlers in the vicinity at that time were the Martins, Odens, Franks, Bennetts, Hays,


Parks, Levi English and Ed Burleson. These were all in what was known as the Martin Settlement.

On the morning in question Ed Burleson went out a short distance from his ranch to drive up some horses. He was unarmed and riding a slow horse. Suddenly and unexpectedly to him he was attacked by two Indians, who ran him very close, one on foot and the other mounted. The one on foot outran the horseman and came near catching Burleson, but he ran through a thicket and, coming out on the side next his ranch, arrived there safely. Quite a lot of people had collected at his house, men, women and children, to celebrate the Fourth and wind up with a dance. Ere the sun went down on that day, however, the festivities were changed into mourning. Instead of the gay tramp and joyous laughter of the dancers, wailing and the slow tread of a funeral procession was heard. Excitement ran high when Burleson dashed in and gave the alarm. Most of the men mounted in haste to go in pursuit and others were notified. When all the men had congregated who could be gotten together on short notice, they numbered eleven and were as follows : Levi English, L. A. Franks, G. W. Daugherty, Ed Burleson, W. C. Bell, Frank Williams, Dean Oden, Bud English, Dan Williams, John Berry and Mr. Aikens. Levi English, being the oldest man in the party and experienced to some extent


in fighting Indians, was chosen captain. When the main trail was struck the Indians were found to be in large force, and going down the Leona River. They crossed this stream near Bennett's ranch, four miles from Burleson's. They then went out into the open prairie in front of Martin's ranch, ten miles further on. The settlers first came in sight of them two miles off, but they went down into a valley and were lost to sight for some time. Suddenly, however, they came into view again not more than two hundred yards away. They were thirty-six Indians, mounted two and two on a horse. The Indians now discovered the white men for the first time and at once commenced a retreat. The white men were all brave frontiersmen and made a reckless and impetuous charge and began firing too soon. The Indians ran nearly a mile and, thinking likely they had well-nigh drawn the fire of the settlers, checked their flight at a lone tree at a signal from their chief, and each Indian who was mounted behind another jumped to the ground and came back at a charge, and for the first time commenced shooting. The mounted ones circled to right and left and sent a shower of arrows and bullets. Some of the Indians went entirely around the white men and a desperate battle at close quarters ensued. The redmen had the advantage of the whites in point of numbers and shots. The latter, having nearly exhausted their shots at long range, had no time to reload a cap and ball pistol or gun in such a fight as was now being inaugurated. Captain English in vain gave orders during the mad charge, trying to hold the boys back and keep them out of the deadly circle in which they finally went. Dan Williams was the first man killed and when he fell from his horse was at once surrounded by the Indians. English now rallied the men together and charged to the body of Williams, and after a hot fight drove them back, but in so doing fired their last loads. The Indians were quick to see this, and came back at them again, and a retreat was ordered. Frank


Williams, brother to Dan, now dismounted by the side of his dying brother and asked if there was anything he could do for him, and expressed a willingness to stay with him. "No," said the stricken man, handing Frank his pistol, "take this and do the best you can —I am killed— cannot live ten minute's. Save yourself." The men were even now wheeling their horses and leaving the ground, and Frank only mounted and left when the Indians were close upon him. The Comanches came after them yelling furiously, and a panic ensued.

Dean Oden was the next man to fall a victim. His horse was wounded and began to pitch and the Indians were soon upon him. He dismounted and was wounded in the leg, and attempted to remount again, but was wounded six times more in the breast and back, as the Indians were on all sides of him. Aus Franks was near him trying to force his way out, and the last he saw of Oden he was down on to his knees and his horse gone. The next and last man killed was Bud English, son of the late captain. His father stayed by his body until all hope was gone and all the men scattering away. The Indians pursued with a fierce vengeance, mixing in with the whites, and many personal combats took place, the settlers striking at the Indians with their unloaded guns and pistols. In this fight all the balance of the men were wounded except Franks, Berry and Frank Williams. Captain English was badly wounded in the side with an arrow; G. W. Daughtery was hit in the leg with an arrow; Ed Burleson also in the leg; Aikens in the breast, and W. C. Bell in the side. In this wounded and scattered condition the men went back to the ranch and told the news of their sad defeat. Other men were collected and returned to the battleground to bring away the dead, led by those who participated but escaped unhurt. The three bodies lay within a hundred yards of each other and were badly mutilated. The Indians carried away their dead; how many was not known, but supposed to be but few,


on account of the reckless firing of the men at the beginning of the fight. Bud English was killed by a bullet in the breast, and there was also one arrow or lance wound in the breast. The head of Dan Williams was nearly severed from the body, necessitating a close wrapping in a blanket to keep the members together while being carried back. Oden and Williams were brothers-in-law, and were both buried in the same box. Eight out of eleven were killed or wounded.

This is a very good description of the early day life in Texas.


Written by John Warren Hunter

No name was more familiarly known thirty-five years ago in West Texas than that of Andrew Jackson Potter, the "Fighting Parson." His name was a household word from the Panhandle to the Gulf ; from the Colorado to the Rio Grande, and the stories of his wit, prowess and adventures were sent abroad in the nation by press and pulpit. While the question of frontier protection was being considered in the United States Congress in 1872, a Texas member said in his speech : "Remove your regulars from the garrison on the Texas border; commission Jack Potter, a reclaimed desperado and now a Methodist preacher and Indian fighter, instruct him to choose and organize one hundred men and Indian depredations along the Texas border will cease."

A. J. Potter was born in Charlton County, Missouri, April 3, 1830, and was one of seven children—four boys and three girls— Andrew being the third son. His father, Joshua Potter, was one of those rugged Kentucky marksmen who stood behind the breastworks at New Orleans, January 8, 1815, and helped defeat the flower of the


British army under Packenham. It was on account of his love and veneration for "Old Hickory" that he named his son Andrew Jackson. While quite young the boy's father moved to Grand River, near Clinton, where the lad spent his boyhood. Clinton was at that time a border county and educational facilities were very limited. Three months in school covered the entire period of Andy's scholastic experience, and during this time he learned to read after a fashion, but did not acquire the art— of writing.

At the age of ten, Andrew was an orphan, without home, friends or heritage, and became a race rider, and his skill, courage and daring soon won the high regard of his employer to the extent that he taught him to write, play cards and shoot straight ; three of the most important branches of a frontiersman's education during those early days. For six years Andrew followed the occupation of race rider, his daily associates being jockeys, gamblers, drunkards and blasphemers— six years of perilous paths that led over hills, mountains and deserts from St. Louis to Santa Fe. In 1846, when hostilities broke out between the United States and Mexico, Mr. Potter then being about 16 years of age, enlisted in Captain Slack's company of volunteers and, under command of General Sterling Price, took up the line of march for Santa Fe, New Mexico. A few days' march demon- strated the fact that Andrew was too small to carry a haversack and musket and endure the fatigue of a soldier. He was detailed as teamster, where he learned his first lesson in driving oxen.

The expedition left Leavenworth, Kansas, in September, 1846, and the route led up the Arkansas. Before reaching Bent's Fort the entire train of 40 wagons was captured by the Cheyenne Indians. Not apprehending danger, it seems the main body of troops had passed on far in advance, leaving the train without an escort. Under the cloak of friendship, two Indians came into the


camp early in the morning and were given food and remained. When the train moved out two others came up ; other squads joined them and then still larger bands, then three hundred savages rushed upon the teamsters. No attempt at violence was made by the Indians. The chief gave the wagonmaster to understand that he only wanted provisions, not scalps, and if he had to fight to obtain the provisions he'd take scalps also. The wagon-master agreed to give him a certain amount of provisions, and while this was being given out a cloud of dust was seen rising far in the rear and the teamsters shouted, "Soldiers! The soldiers are coming ! " Seizing their plunder, the Indians mounted and fled. The cloud of dust was caused by an approaching wagon train.

At Bent's Fort, young Potter was seized with an attack of "camp fever," and it was thought necessary to leave him at that post, but his wagonmaster, who had become greatly attached to the lad, made arrangements to take him along. It was yet three hundred miles to Santa Fe, winter was at hand and the Raton Mountains were before them. After enduring untold hardships, they reached Santa F,e in January, 1847. For five years young Potter remained with the army in that region, operating in New Mexico and Arizona, fighting, trailing and routing the vengeful Apaches and other dangerous tribes. It was during this period that he became an adept in all the arts of Indian warfare. He was an apt student in their school of cunning and strategy. Mr. Potter leaves on record his impressions made by the sufferings of Price's men in the hospital at Santa F.e. He says:

"In the latter part of 1847 I was employed as a nurse in the hospital at Santa Fe. On entering that place I saw an affecting scene.; a large number of men sick of scurvy, measles and pneumonia, were lying on narrow bunks so closely crowded together that there was just room to pass between them. My time of nursing came on in the first


part of the night, and it was an awful half night to me. Many of the sufferers in their fevered delirium would rise up and gather their blankets, saying they were going home. By the time I would get them quieted, others would be crying out : 'Good-bye, I am going home!' at the same time making efforts to get up. Never shall I forget those dreary half nights I spent there with the dead and dying. Oh, the sweet thoughts of home, sweet home ! They came as a dream charm over the fevered brain when visions of wife, babes and loved ones at home entered the mind.

"At length a train set out for Fort Leavenworth to carry home all the sick who were able to stand the trip across the plains. I was one of the attendants. As our ox teams slowly moved up the hill I took my last lingering look at the old adobe town of Santa Fe, with eyes dimmed by unshed tears, as I gazed for the last time on the graves of so many brave soldiers who lay side by side on the tomb-covered hill beyond, not to arise until Death's long reign is passed. Many of our sick died in the great wilderness and we rolled them up in their blankets and hid them in earth's cold clay at intervals in our long journey from Santa Fe to Fort Leavenworth. Their unmarked graves are in the unsettled wilds of Nature's solitude. Friends and dear ones at home know not the place of their rest. When we wrapped their cold bodies in their soldier shrouds and shaped the grave mound over them, the hardy soldier would perchance moisten the earthen monument with a pitying tear. To me it was a terribly gloomy thought to leave them alone in savage lands, to be trodden under foot by the wild, roving bands of Nature's untamed children in their merry dances over the dust of their vanquished foes."

After six years' service as a soldier, Mr. Potter came to Texas, reaching San Antonio in 1852, and from there he went to visit a brother then living on York's Creek in


Hays County. Shortly after his arrival at his brother's he was stricken with typhoid fever and came near dying. When he recovered he found himself penniless and a big doctor's bill to pay. His first employment was driving an ox team at $15 a month, hauling lumber from Bastrop County to San Marcos, and by saving up his wages he was soon able to pay off all indebtedness. About this time Rev. I. G. John, a Methodist preacher, came along and filled an appointment on York's Creek. Potter went out to hear him, more for the novelty of the meeting and a spirit of curiosity. The text, "Who is the wise man?" pierced his .soul, and from that day he became a regular attendant at preaching, even denying himself the pleasures of a Sunday race in order to hear Rev. John preach.

John preached at a great religious revival held at Croft's Prairie, in 1856. Mr. Potter was converted, joined the church and the horse racer, gambler and saloonkeeper tough was completely transformed and became one of the most useful men West Texas ever knew.

The new life inspired Mr. Potter with a desire to learn and he became a devoted Bible reader. He learned to write, and soon began to preach. In 1859 he sold out in Bastrop County and located on a place nine miles east of Lockhart, where he was licensed to preach and from there began his wonderful career as an itinerant preacher.

In 1861 he was seized with a desire to visit the old home in Missouri, but had no money to defray the expenses of the journey. Mr. Miller, of Lockhart, was getting ready to start a herd of cattle to Kansas. Mr. Potter hired to him as a herder and after 47 days' travel, reached a point 100 miles from the home of his boyhood, which he traversed in a few days. His sister only remained to greet him and those who had known him as the reckless race rider and gambler were astounded to learn that Andy Potter had come to life and was a preacher ! He preached to a great concourse the Sunday


following his arrival, and this was the beginning of a great revival that continued three months.

In February, 1862, Mr. Potter enlisted as a private in Captain Stoke Home's Company at Prairie Lea. This company was assigned to Wood's Regiment, Thirty- second Texas Cavalry. The command was first stationed at Camp Verde, Kerr County, and later near San Antonio, where Rev. Potter was appointed chaplain of DeBray's regiment. From San Antonio the command went to Brownsville, where the fighting parson whipped the editor of the local paper f or having published what Potter conceived to be a libel on his regiment, and was on the eve of throwing the printing plant into the river, but was prevented by General Bee.

Mr. Potter was in all of the battles of the Red River campaign in 1864, one of unspeakable hardships to the soldiers of the Confederacy hunger, sickness, toils, battle strife, death. Bread, sugar and berries were the chief articles of food. The good chaplain shared all these hardships with the common soldiers, passing through all the daily drills and marches, preaching, praying and exhorting the men.

When in battle array and ready for the order to advance, Chaplain Potter -could be seen with hat in one hand and Bible in the other, walking back and forth in front of his regiment exhorting the men to repentance. "Boys, some of you may fall in this battle," he would say; "in a few minutes you may be called to meet your Maker. Repent now and give your heart to Christ. He is waiting to receive you. Oh, men, it's a solemn moment ! You are facing death and eternity ! " And when the order forward" was given, Mr. Potter seized a musket, fell in rank and fought side by side with his men. At the close of battle Potter seemed endowed with the power of ubiquity. Everywhere, praying with the dying, administering to the wounded, writing last messages to friends at home, day and night, scarcely pausing to take food


or rest. This is the testimony of his comrades, many of whom are yet living who will confirm the statement.

In the fall of 1865 Mr. Potter was appointed as a supply to the Prairie Lea circuit and at the annual conference held at Seguin in the fall of 1867, he was sent to the mountain frontier and took station at Kerrville. This threw him in the region where, on each light moon, the Indian left his trail of blood along some mountain side or valley. But the Comanche yell had no terrors for Potter; he had heard it before and had been schooled in all their wiles and methods. In 1868 Mr. Potter bought a place near Boerne and moved his family to it. In 1871 he was sent to the Uvalde circuit, which bordered on the Rio Grande, where Indians could cross any day, and their depredations, killing and stealing, were almost of daily occurrence. Uvalde, at that time, was known as one of the wickedest places on the border and never before had preaching. In addition to his ministerial work, Mr. Potter had been appointed colporteur, and over this vast territory he distributed among, rich and poor alike a great number of Bibles.

During the first year of his work in the mountain region the Indians made a raid on Curry's Creek. Dr. Nowlin, an old frontiersman, knew the Indians were in the country and stationed two men in his corncrib to guard his horses, which were loose in the lot. The moon was at its full and along about midnight two Indians were seen to stealthily approach, and as they began to let down the lot fence, one of the men in the crib took good aim and fired, killing the Indian in his tracks, the other man was so scared he could not shoot and the other Indian got away.

While on his rounds in the Uvalde work, on the road between the Frio and Sabinal Canyon, Mr. Potter met a squad of four Indians. He was traveling in an ambulance drawn by two small Spanish mules and while passing through a lonely defile in the mountains he came up


almost face to face with these four redskins. He saw there was going to be a fight and, seizing his Winchester, he leaped out of his ambulance and securely tied his mules to a sapling and then, under cover of a thicket, he reached a slight elevation, where he could better command a full view of the enemy. Getting in a good position, the parson took good aim and pulled the trigger, but the gun failed to fire and the "click" click" of the hammer revealed his whereabouts. Two Indians had citizen rifles and blazed away at him, but without effect. The parson fired at the same instant, wounding one of the Indians and knocking the gun out of his hands. The wounded Indian was taken up by his comrades and carried off.

Potter might have killed all four before they got out of reach, but he was afraid to risk his cartridges, as they had been on hand some time. Returning to his ambulance, he drove off some distance from the road and came to the foot of a mountain and drove into a dense thicket. He knew— there were more than four Indians around, and that they were likely to lay in ambush somewhere ahead. When he had secured his team in the thicket he carefully cleaned his gun, selected the best cartridges, got his pistol in fighting trim, and began to look around. He discovered two Indians watching for him from the summit of the hill above him and when they saw that he had seen them, they blazed away, but missed their mark. Mr. Potter pumped several shots at them as they scampered over the hill out of sight. He then re-entered his vehicle and drove away without seeing that bunch of redskins again.

One instance out of many, will give the reader an idea of the person, the men and the times of which we write. While on this frontier work, late one evening he reached a military outpost. It might have been Fort Clark. The soldiers had just been paid off and the little village near the post was crowded with gamblers,


sharpers, crooks and other disreputable characters. Many of these knew Mr. Potter and when he rode up they set up a. shout, "Here comes the fighting parson!" "Hold up, there, old pardner ! Can't you give us a gospel song an' dance tonight?" When told he would preach to them if they would provide a place, one sang out, "Sure, Parson, we'll make way f or ye, if we have to rent the saloon! " A saloon gallery was provided with rude seats, kegs, barrels and a few chairs from dwellings nearby, and as the word had gone abroad that a strange preacher was in town, people began to assemble early. One man who was the worse for drink, insisted on acting the part of usher and town crier. He mounted a barrel and f or some time kept up the cry, '' 0 yes. 0 yes. 0 yes! There is going to be some hellfired racket here, right here on this gallery by fightin' Parson Potter, a reformed gambler, but now a regular gospel shark. The jig will begin now in fifteen minutes, and you old whiskey soaks and card sharpers, come over and learn how to mend your ways, or the devil will get you quicker'n hell can scorch a feather."

A great crowd assembled— one of the hardest looking sets of human beings Potter had ever preached to, but they kept good order, and when service concluded they wanted to ",set 'em up" to the parson, but when he declined that mark of their respect they passed an empty cigar box and all "chipped chipped in." He preached the next day and was pressed by those rude Western men to come again and come often.

In 1878 or 1879 Mr. Potter began his labors at Fort Concho. San Angelo was a small frontier village and, like all post towns along the border, had a record not the best along the lines of morality. The saloons and gambling halls were popular resorts. They were open day and night, and every man went heavily armed. Mr. Potter visited the families, preached to the gamblers, soldiers and plainsmen.


In 1883 Mr. Potter moved his family to San Angelo, but continued his ministerial work wherever assigned.

In 1894 he was sent to the Lockhart circuit. Here it was on this same circuit that he began his ministry. On October 21, 1895, he preached his last sermon prior to going to conference. It was the close of his year's work, and proved to be the closing scene of his life work. This was at Tilden, and while delivering his peroration with uplifted hands with the words, "I believe," he fell in the pulpit and when tender hands lifted the limp form the great soul had gone home to the Father who gave it. To the writer who knew him and loved him as a brother for many years, he had expressed a wish to die in harness, in the pulpit.

As has been stated, no man who ever lived in Southwest Texas was more widely known than A. J. Potter. That he acquired the title of the "fighting parson" was in no wise derogatory to his character as a man, a Christian gentleman or a preacher. He was a man absolutely without fear. He was never the aggressor, and when a difficulty was forced upon him he always acted on the defensive and vanquished his assailant. His personal combats with Indians and desperadoes would fill a volume. It is a notable fact that when he had overcame an assailant in a fist fight or otherwise, if he chanced to be a white man, he always gave him fatherly counsel and offered him his hand.

It was said of him that he knew every road, trail and landscape throughout all West Texas. He had visited nearly every home in all this vast region, administered to the sick, officiated at weddings and funerals, and received a frontier welcome everywhere.





By Fred Sutton of Oklahoma City, Okla.

The meeting of "The Old Time Trail Drivers' Association," of which the writer is a charter member, held at Houston, Texas, calls to mind many interesting bits of history of the early-day cow business and of the drives made over the romantic and historic Chisholm Trail. And I wonder what has become of all of those good boys who blazed the way from San Antonio to where it crossed the Red River near Gainesville, thence through what is now Love, Carter, Garvin, Grady, Canadian, Kingfisher, Garfield and Grant Counties in Oklahoma.

This trail was started in 1868 by John Chisholm, for whom the trail was named. One of the principal water- ing places was at what was called the government spring, and which is now a beautiful park in the city of Enid. In 1872 the terminus was shifted to Ellsworth, Kansas, and in that year the Santa Fe built into the Great Bend country and Dodge City was laid out as a townsite, and in 1874 the head of the drive was located at that point. From 1874 to 1884 Dodge City was headquarters for all cowmen from Oklahoma and Texas. During that ten years it was the toughest spot on the American continent and much history has been written of it and of the men who tamed the population and who turned the wide-open town with its Indian fighters, buffalo hunters, cowboys, dance halls, honkytonks and gambling houses, into the modern city of today, where a beautiful high school building ornaments the summit of the notorious Boot Hill, where many a mother's boy who left the East so suddenly that he forgot to take his name with him was laid away by the followers of the Chisholm Trail.

It was in the year 1881 that the writer made his first drive over the trail for Jesse Evans, one of the cattle kings of that day. He was accompanied by some twenty


good-hearted, dare-devil, fear-nothing riders, and he would love to know where the remnant of that little band of good boys is and that those who have passed on were given credit for the good deeds performed in this life, and the broad mantle of charity spread over the faults that we all have, and of which (it seems to me) the writer has more than any. On this drive some of our boys quit and men were picked up to take their places, and in this way we were joined by Bill Driscoll, who had been riding the Bar L for Colonel Brooks. He was a morose, sullen man, who never spoke of his past, and as he was always practicing shooting and telling of his prowess with a "45," no one made inquiry regarding it, and in a short time all quit trying to be pleasant or sociable with him, and he was left almost entirely to himself.

Another recruit was Burt Phelps, who came from no one knows where, but he joined the drive at "Old Old Boot ranch." He was a mild-mannered, blue-eyed boy of 22 years, highly educated and very refined and seemingly entirely out of place on the trail, a fact of which all were sure when he was seen one day to be earnestly reading a little pocket edition of the Bible, which he hurriedly put away and blushed like a school-girl when he saw us looking at him. Though quite modest and retiring in disposition, he was soon a rank favorite with all except Driscoll, who never missed a chance to make light of "mamma's boy," as he called him. Burt was warned several times to look out for Driscoll, as he was a bad and ugly-tempered man and would probably try to draw him into a fight, and as he already had several notches on his gun, a fight with him was to be earnestly avoided. To this Burt replied that he did not fear him and, despite the notches, he was not afraid, and that if occasion required he could shoot him twice while he was pulling his gun, a statement which was soon to be borne out.

That evening in camp a fire had been built by some dry wood gathered along Red River, and Driscoll was


standing rather close to. it, when Burt threw a handful of wood on it, causing a small coal to fly up and strike him in the face. He at once flew into a rage and grasped his six-.shooter, but before he could get it from the holster Burt had his gun in his face and smilingly took the gun with its notches. from Driscoll and, taking the shells from it, handed it back and said : "Mr. Driscoll, you act like you were drawing a siege gun into action and ought to practice up some that you may defend yourself in time of trouble. You had better go now and rest up for a hard day's ride tomorrow." He moved sullenly away and again Burt was warned to be careful, which only brought a smile to his boyish face.

For some days all went smoothly, until we bedded one night near the D H K ranch, and were asked to attend a dance at that place, and as opportunities of that kind were few and far between, all gladly accepted, and, leaving a few boys to watch the herd, the rest went to the dance, where all had a fine time. At about midnight a driver by the name of Ed Bannister, who was from Atchison, Kansas, called to Burt through a window of the ranch house to loan him his gun, as a man out there wanted to kill a wolf that was scaring the horses. Knowing Bannister to be his friend, nothing was thought of the request and the gun was handed out and soon returned with the word that the wolf had gotten away. Shortly after all went back to camp to sleep.

The following day Driscoll and Burt met at a water hole and Driscoll renewed the quarrel of a few days past, and drew his gun, but before he could fire Burt had snapped his gun twice from the hip. Driscoll fired and poor Burt fell dead. The man who. asked Bannister to borrow the gun had removed the loads. It was Bill Driscoll. Some say Driscoll escaped and was later in the sheep business in New Mexico. Others say that at the foot of a dead tree on the banks of Red River could be found a few bones and a black-barreled .45 with several


notches on the handle and four loaded shells. Who knows? The writer does know that on a gently sloping hill overlooking the valley of the Red River is an almost forgotten grave that contains. all that is left of the mortal remains of poor Burt Phelps, and in the inside pocket of his coat is a little Bible, on the fly-leaf of which was written, "From mother to her boy." Where he came from no one knew, but his companions on the drive believed him to be the son of a rich Eastern father with whom he had fallen out, resulting in his leaving home to cast his lot with the rough element to be found on the range.

The writer could go to this forgotten grave where poor Burt's remains are resting and where he was laid by a bunch of cowboys, who, with hats in hand, tried to say a prayer and, f ailing, their eyes dimmed with tears, one member on his knees, with eyes raised to heaven, said, "Oh, God, look down on this Thy child."

The writer lives now at Oklahoma City, not far from the old trail that could tell so many stories of human interest if it could but speak. Other men who live here and who rode the trail from 1874 to 1884 are Frank M. Gault. He was sent in 1880 by W. H. Davis to Laredo, Texas, to bring 5,000 longhorns over the trail to Dodge City, and on this drive he had as his assistant foreman Wills McCoy, now of San Antonio; James D. Cox, who drove through in 1874, and who, now at the age of 82, would rather have a good cow horse and saddle than the finest auto, has a fine ranch in Arizona and often spends his summers there; Charley Colcord, who is now a millionaire oil man, and whom the writer recently met at a reception attired in a full dress suit, which brought to mind the fact that it was he who brought the first toothbrush to Medicine Lodge, Kan., and how the punchers all wanted to borrow it till pay day, and after that day came, for a short time, each rider had a white-handled brush sticking out of his top vest or shirt pocket,


and thus style was introduced on the Kansas plains by Charley Colcord, the cowboy.

I could go on writing of others, such as George B. Stone, Oscar Halsell, Bill Tilghman, B. S. McGuire, F. E. Herring of Elk City, and others who were good cowboys, and are good men, who while on the range could take their own part under any and all circumstances, feared nothing, and who are now the God-fearing and peace-loving business men who have builded a modern city of 100,000 people in twenty-seven years on the site of the Chisholm Trail.


By Thomas Welder, Beeville, Texas

In the early seventies we owned quite a large horse stock and, there being no market for them in this country, I decided to drive a bunch east in hopes of finding sale for them. In 1873 I gathered one hundred mules and some good horses and started with them. I first went to Wharton, on the Colorado, but, not finding a market there, I went on to Richmond, on the Brazos, then to Lake Charles, La., continuing my journey until I wound up at the mouth of Red River in Lousiana. There I remained five months, finally disposing of all the mules and horses. I continued to make drives to that region every year until 1878, when I concluded to try driving cattle up the trail to Kansas. That spring Dug Williams and I drove a herd for J. J. Welder. We gathered in February, and after branding the cattle on his San Patricio County ranch, we went to his ranch in Refugio County to finish up. We divided the cattle into two herds, having from a one-year-old up to. a grown steer. I was given choice of the herds, and took the young cattle 2,000 ones and 500 twos. I soon discovered my mistake, for the


young cattle, not being able to stand the hardships of the trail, soon began to give out, and I found myself with a lot of drags, as we called them. We were caught in a severe freeze on Gonzales Prairies, which made matters worse. However, I continued on my journey and reached Fort Worth, where we crossed the river there and went out to Blue Mound to spend a few days resting up. With the assistance of Jim Reed and Tom Ward, formerly citizens of South Teas, but then living at Fort Worth, I disposed of the drags, about sixty head, at six dollars per head, then resumed our journey and crossed Red River at Red River Station on the eastern trail into the Indian Territory. At the entrance of every reservation I found a sign posted up, "One Wohaw, " which meant that the Indians wanted one steer to pay for grazing privileges. I always complied with the request and had no trouble, but others who failed to do so had their cattle stampeded at night and probably lost more in the end than I did. We encountered several severe hailstorms on our way, but finally reached Dodge City, where we sold part of our cattle to be delivered at Ogallala, Nebraska. The remaining ones we closed out at Dodge City. We returned home by way of Kansas City, Galveston, Indianola and Victoria.

In 1882 I put 400 head of my cattle into a herd with J. J. Welder and Wash Moss and I drove for him that year. The herd consisted of 5,000 head, which we gathered and branded at his ranch on the San Antonio River. We divided the cattle into. two herds of 2,500 each, and having gained some valuable experience the year before, I chose the herd of older cattle and started on the trail with them. They stampeded every night for ten or twelve nights, and I began to think I had again made a mistake, but they soon got used to the trail and quit giving trouble. I delivered the last of these cattle about twenty miles from Denver, Colorado. We reached Dodge City some time in June, where John sold the grown


steers to Major Maberry, who had a contract with the government to furnish the Indians with beef. We delivered 500 to him, I think, the remaining 2,000 of my herd were sold to a banker, Fine Eames, of Denver, to be delivered there. We started the herd from Dodge City, going up the Arkansas River some 200 or 300 miles in order to have plenty of water f or the cattle. We also followed a small stream called Sandy River for some distance. We had to drive our cattle up and down this river for two or three hours at a time, then take them out to give the water time to rise, and let them go to the water in small bunches in order for the herd to get sufficient water. We reached the Kit Carson ranch on the Union Pacific or the Kansas Pacific about twenty miles from Denver, where we delivered the herd and the outfit returned home.

Before closing I want to relate one little incident of excitement that happened to me in 1878. While on the trail, after crossing the North Canadian River, I was traveling ahead of the herd to find a stopping place for the night, and after finding a good place, started back to the herd, when I was overtaken by seven Indians. They wanted to swap horses with me, but I would not swap. Then one wanted some cartridges for his gun. I had a belt full, but I pulled out my pistol, held it in my hand and kept right on traveling. One of the Indians grabbed for my hat, but I dodged and kept him from getting it. Finally I saw our lead cattle coming over the hill and pointed to them. The Indians saw the herd and at once quit me, and I felt considerably relieved.


By Mrs. A. Burks, Cotulla, Texas

My husband, Mr. W. F. Burks, and I lived on a ranch at Banquette, Nueces County, during the days that Texas


cattle could be marketed only by driving them over the old Kansas Trail.

At this time in this section of the country good steers could be bought for fifteen dollars, and were often killed for the hides and tallow. The meat was fed to the hogs.

In the early spring of 1871 Mr. Burks rounded up his cattle and topped out a thousand head of the best to take to market. Jasper Clark (better known as "Jap ") was getting ready to take the Clark herd also, so they planned to keep the two herds not far apart.

They started in April with about ten cowboys each, mostly Mexicans, and the cooks. The cattle were roadbranded at Pinitas and started on the familiar trail. They were only a day out when Marcus Banks, my brother-in-law, came back with a note to me from Mr. Burks asking me to get ready as soon as possible and catch up with the bunch. He also said to bring either Eliza or Nick (black girl and boy who worked for us) to look out for my comfort, and suggested that Nick would be of more help than the girl.

So Nick and I started in my little buggy drawn by two good brown ponies and overtook the herd in a day's time. Nick, being more skilled than the camp cook, prepared my meals. He also put up my tent evenings, and took it down when we broke up camp. It was intended that he should drive my horses when I was tired, but that was not necessary, for the horses often had no need of anyone driving them. They would follow the slow-moving herd unguided, and I would find a comfortable position, fasten the lines and take a little nap.

The cattle were driven only about ten miles a day, or less, so that they would have plenty of time to graze and fatten along the way. They were in good condition when they reached Kansas.

Except when I was lost, I left the bunch only once after starting. On this occasion I went to Concrete, where my sister lived, to have a tent made for the trip.




The night before our herd reached Beeville the Clark herd stampeded and never caught sight of us until we were 'way up-state.

All went pretty well with us till we neared Lockhart, and here we lost thirty cows in the timber. They were never recovered.

Whenever we came to timber we had to rush the cattle through, sometimes driving all day without stopping, for if they were scattered it was almost impossible to gather them again in the thick undergrowth.

Being springtime, the weather was delightful until we reached Central Texas. Some of the worst electrical and hailstorms I have ever witnessed were in this part and also in North Texas. The lightning seemed to settle on the ground and creep along like something alive.

Over in Bosque County late one evening a storm overtook us, and Mr. Burks drove me off into a more sheltered part of the timber. He unfastened the traces from the buggy and gave me the lines, but told me if the horses tried to run to let them go. Hail had begun to f all by this time and he had to hurry back to help the men hold the frightened cattle. Harder and heavier fell the hail, and rain was pouring down in torrents. The horses worked their way around to one side of the buggy, seeking protection, and it seemed that *it would be only a few seconds until they pulled away from me entirely. Determined not to let the horses go, I left the shelter of my buggy top and tied the horses with a rope I always carried with me. I got back in the buggy and sat there cold and wet and hungry and all alone in the dark. Homesick ! This is the only time of all the months of my trip that I wished I was back on the old ranch at Banquette.

After what seemed ages to me I could hear the rumble of wagon wheels on the trail, and later still the sound of the beat of a horse's hoofs going the same way; but no one seemed to pay me any mind.


Later I learned that it was the cook driving the wagon, not knowing which way to go after being lost in the dark woods; and that Mr. Burks rode after him to bring him back to cook supper for the hungry men who had had nothing to eat since morning.

After I heard the return of the wagon the woods rang with the sound of Mr. Burks' voice calling me, and I lost no time in answering. It was one o'clock in the morning when I reached camp.

Mr. Burks and several of the others had big blood blisters on their hands caused by the hail. One of the boys said, " The beat of the hail on my head made me crazy. I would have run, but didn't know which way to go. "

There were few people living along the trail, but when going through Ellis County we saw an old woman sitting in the doorway of a small house stringing beans. We remarked to her that we saw very few women in that part of the country. She answered, "Yes, sir, I'm the first woman that made a track in Dallas County, and I would be back in Tennessee now, only I would have to go through Arkansas to get there. I guess I'll stay right here. "

Once when we were camping in Johnson County I heard the bark of dogs followed by several rapid pistol shots. I ran to my tent to see what the trouble was. The Mexican who had charge of the cattle on this relay said that two dogs ran right in among the grazing herd and were about to stampede them when he shot them.

The owner of the dogs appeared soon after the shooting and seemed very downcast over his loss. He said he had "sure sure been having hard luck." He had first lost his two sons in the Civil War and had now lost his two dogs, which he had trained to keep cattle out of his tiny nearby field. We were sorry for the poor old man, but knew the Mexican did the right thing in preventing a stampede.


We camped a long time at Fort Worth, waiting f or the Trinity River to fall low enough to cross our cattle. I counted fifteen herds here waiting to cross.

After we had crossed the Red River we seemed to have left all civilization behind. There were no more fresh fields, green meadows, and timber lands. The sun was so blistering that we hung a cloth inside the top of my buggy to break the heat that came through. Evenings and mornings were so cool that we were uncom- fortable.

We had heard of the treacherous Indians and cattle rustlers of the Territory and were always on the lookout for them. The cattle and horses were kept well guarded. One day one of the Mexican cowboys who was on guard duty fell asleep. Mr. Burks could not permit such negligence and told the man that he had to go. All the Mexicans notified Mr. Burks that if this man was "fired" that all would go with him. Of course there was no one else to be employed in this uninhabited territory, so we kept the man who had to have his afternoon nap.

We had no unpleasant experiences with the Indians, although they came to camp and tried to trade with the men. We narrowly escaped having trouble with a couple of what we supposed to be rustlers. While alone in camp one afternoon two men came up and were throwing rocks in among the grazing cattle. I called to them to stop and said, "Don't you know you'll stampede those cattle," and they answered, "That's what we're trying to do." Just then some of the men rode up and the rustlers left hurriedly.

Mr. Burks always kept his horse saddled at night so that he would be ready to go at a word from the boys. As he often helped the men watch the cattle when they were restless, I was sometimes alone in my tent till late at night. On these occasions I sat up fully dressed for any emergency.

On one of these nights it was thought that Indians


were near, so a guard was left at my tent, but he was soon called to help with the cattle. A man from the other camp begged me to go over to his camp and stay until the trouble was over, but I told him I preferred my own tent. The men thought me very brave to stay alone at such a time.

Both the Clark and our herds were stampeded one day, supposedly by Indians. It was a horrible yet fascinating sight. Frantic cowboys did all in their power to stop the wild flight, but nothing but exhaustion could check it. By working almost constantly the men gathered the cattle in about a week's time. They were all thrown into one big herd, and the roar of hoof-beats of two thousand milling cattle was almost deafening. The herd was divided into two, then worked back and forth until every cow was in her rightful bunch.

After an experience of this kind the men would be almost exhausted. I felt so sorry for one of them, Branch Isbell, a young tenderfoot, that I persuaded Mr. Burks to let him rest. The boy lay down and was soon sleeping so soundly that he did not hear us breaking camp, and we forgot him when we left. I wanted someone to go back and wake him, but Mr. Burks said that it would be only a little while till he appeared again. The boy overtook us late in the evening, and said that he would not have awakened then if an approaching herd had not almost ran over him.

We seemed to be pursued by fire during our entire trip. The first night we were in the Territory Mr. Burks and I went to sleep, leaving a candle burning, and before we were awakened a box full of trinkets and small articles, including my comb, were in a blaze.

On one occasion a prairie fire ran us out of camp before breakfast. We escaped by fleeing to a part of the plain which had been burned before, called "a burn" by people of that section.

Two days later my ignorance was the cause of an


immense prairie fire. I thought I would build a fire in a gulley while the cook had gone for water. Not later than I had struck the match than the grass all around was in a blaze which spread so quickly that the men could not stop it. They succeeded in beating out the flanks of the fire so that it did not spread out at the sides at the beginning. The fire blazed higher than a house and went straight ahead for fifty miles or more. Investigators came next day to find out who the culprit was, and when they learned that it was a woman, nothing was said, except f or a remark one of the men made that lie was glad that he didn't strike that match.

Once when we were encamped on Emmet Creek a fire crept upon us so quickly that the men barely had time to break up camp and get the cattle to safety. There was not time enough to harness the horses to my buggy, so the men tied ropes to it, told me to jump in, and we again fled to a burn. Birds and animals fled with us before the flames.

Many of the prairie fires were started by squatters on land who wanted to keep strangers away. They would plough a safety boundary around their stake and then set fire to the grass outside.

Fuel was very scarce because of these fires and the cook often had to go miles to get enough to cook a meal.

We crossed many nice cool streams whose banks were covered with wild plums. I noticed the ripe ones first when crossing the Washita, and wanted to stop to gather some. Mr. Burks wasn't ready to stop, so told me that the Indians were very troublesome at this place, and I needed no coaxing to start the horses on.

Later, when we came to the Canadian River, the red, blue, and yellow plums were so tempting I had one of the Mexicans stop with me to gather some. We wandered farther away from the buggy than I realized, and when we had gone back a short way I thought the horses had run away and left us. I was panicstricken, but the


Mexican insisted that we go farther up stream, and we soon found the horses standing just as they were left. I forgot my scare when the cook served me with delicious plum pie made from the fruit I had gathered.

Being the only woman in camp, the men rivaled each other in attentiveness to me. They were always on the lookout for something to please me, a surprise of some delicacy of the wild fruit, or prairie chicken, or antelope tongue.

In the northern part of the Territory we left the trail a while to graze the cattle, and I drove on ahead of the bunch to a stream. "Jap" Clark motioned to me to stop, but I misunderstood him and thought he meant "go on," and plunged my horses in the swollen creek. One of the horses stumbled and fell, but was on his feet in a moment, and somehow I was jolted across to the other side. I was the subject of much chaffing because of this alleged attempt to break my neck. The crossing was so bad that the banks had to be chopped down to make it safe f or crossing the cattle.

On the banks of the Arkansas River we saw two Yankees who called themselves farmers. When we asked to see their farms they showed us two plots about the size of a small garden. They said they had never farmed before, and we easily believed them. Vegetables were a great treat to us, so we bought some from the "farmers" and enjoyed them immensely.

The camp cook on this trip was a very surly negro. He was a constant source of trouble, and everybody was glad when he was "fired" and a white man took his place. I heard a commotion in the camp kitchen one day and when I looked out of the tent door I saw the cook with a raised axe and a Mexican facing him with a cocked pistol. Mr. Burks rode up in time to prevent a killing.

We were three months on the trail when we arrived at Emmet Creek, twenty-two miles from Newton, Kansas.

We summered here, as did several other Texas


ranchmen. Market had broken, and everybody that could do so held his cattle hoping for a rise.

While going to town we would often stop at the different camps f or a few minutes' chat.

On stormy and rainy nights a candle always burned in my tent to guide the men. One very stormy night Mr. Burks had to help the men hold the cattle, and he saw the light in the tent flare, then all was black. He rushed through the rain to the place where the tent was and found it flat on the ground, me buried under it, unhurt. The rain had softened the ground and the wind easily blew the tent down. That night all the matches got wet and it was late next morning before we got others with which to start a fire.

When cold weather came the market was still low and Mr. Burks decided to winter his cattle, with others he had bought, on Smoky River.

Mr. Burks wanted me to stay in town at Ellsmore, but after being there a few days, and witnessing another fire in which a hotel and several residences were burned, I preferred camp.

A man who lived some distance from camp was paid to feed the horses through the winter, but soon after we heard that he was starving them. A boy was sent to get them and as he was returning, the first severe snowstorm of the season overtook him at nightfall and he had to take refuge for himself and horses in a wayside stable. Next morning he was awakened by a commotion among the horses, and found the owner of the stable trying to punch out the horses' eyes with a pitchfork. Such was the hatred felt for strangers in this region.

Nine horses were lost in this snowstorm. Many of the young cattle lost their horns from the cold. Blocks of ice had to be chopped out of the streams in order that the cattle could drink.

The first taste of early winter in Kansas decided Mr. Burks to sell his cattle and leave for Sunny Texas as


soon as possible, and he met with no discouragement of his plans from me, for never had I endured such cold.

So in December we left Kansas, dressed as if we were Esquimaux, and carrying a bucket of frozen buffalo tongues as a souvenir for my friends in Texas. Our homeward journey was made by rail to New Orleans via St. Louis, and by water from New Orleans to Corpus Christi via Galveston and Indianola.

I arrived home in much better health than when I left it nine months before.

Please don't think, now that I've finished telling the few stories of my trip over the Old Kansas Trail, that the journey was one of trials and hardships. These incidents served to break the monotony of sameness of such a trip.

One day Mr. Von said as we were resting along the way, "In the heat of the day, when I am riding behind my cattle, I think of you and am sorry for you," and added, as I hope you will, "but when I see your smile of happiness and contentment I know all my sympathy is wasted."

What Mr. Von said is true. For what woman, youthful and full of spirit and the love of living, needs sympathy because of availing herself of the opportunity of being with her husband while at his chosen work in the great out-of-door world?


By Richard (Dick) Withers of Boyes, Montana

I was raised on my father's ranch eight miles north of Lockhart, Caldwell County, Texas, and made my first trip up the trail in 1869. Colonel J. J. Myers, who had a ranch near my father's, had a large stock of cattle, and after the war he commenced to drive them north, and that year I gathered a hundred and ten steers and put


them in one of the herds, Billie Campbell being boss. I traded a beef steer for a pair of goat-skin leggings, bought a slicker and a pair of blankets and started up the trail. I was then eighteen years old. We crossed the Colorado River below Austin, went by Georgetown, Belton and Waco, where we had to swim the Brazos, crossed Red River and struck the Chisholm Trail. Right there is where I ran my first antelope, and thought it was crippled. I was riding a bay horse I called "Buck," so I took down my rope and Buck and I lit out after the antelope, but we did not go far until we quit the chase and went back to the herd.

We had a stampede in the Territory while Noah Ellis and myself were on herd together. In the run that followed my horse fell with me, and I thought the steers would run over me. But I soon learned that steers will not run over a man when he is down under foot. They will run all around a fellow, but I have yet to hear of a man being run over by them. Ellis and I held those cattle all night. After we got rounded up the next day we moved on to the Arkansas River, where we found three herds belonging to Billie Campbell, Dan Phillips and John Bunton, who were traveling together. The river was up and no ferry to help us across, so we had to swim the stream. We made a raft to carry our wagons and supplies over, which took some time. This was at a point fifty or a hundred miles below Wichita, then consisting of a supply store, postoffice and saloon, all in dug-outs.

We went from there to Abilene, Kansas, our destination, where we sold our cattle and started for home.

M. A. Withers and J. W. Montgomery had a large number of cattle at home and I had a good bunch, so in 1870 we gathered a herd together. George Hill was also with us, and Bill Montgomery, George Hill and myself started with them to Abilene, Kansas. In those days 1,000 head was considered a large herd, but we had 3,500


head in that herd, and it was called "the big herd" all the way. We crossed the Colorado below Austin, went by Georgetown and Belton and crossed Red River below Red River Station. The river was up and we had to swim it. A few days after we crossed this stream we had a big .stampede, in which we lost some cattle and had to lay over a day while George Hill and myself went to look for the missing cattle. Returning to camp that night, my horse gave out and I was compelled to roost in a thicket the remainder of the night while George went on to camp, a distance of about five miles.

We had two wagons and two cooks with us, Uncle Gov. Montgomery and Jerry Head. A few days after the stampede mentioned above, the wagons went ahead of the herds to get dinner, and when they made camp a bunch of Indians came up, and when I arrived at camp I found Uncle Gov. and Jerry were about to give them all the tobacco and coffee we had. I gave them only a portion of our coffee and tobacco and they left. All went well until we got to the North Canadian, which was also on a rise, and we had to swim our cattle across. There being three herds of us together, we all made a raft to carry our wagons over. Our herd was in the lead, and when the cattle reached the opposite bank and started out the embankment gave away and 116 head of the cattle were drowned before we could turn them back. We found another going-out place and all three herds made it across all right. When we commenced the getting of wagons over with the three outfits there was a general mixup. Somebody in. the other outfit had a big lot of Confederate money, and Doom, a silly negro that was with us, found this money, $10,000 in large bills, and he hid it, and if we had not been on the north side of the river he would have left us and tried to make away with it. He showed the money to me and I told him it was worthless. I do not know what he did with it, but we would have lost Doom if the river had not been up.


We moved on and crossed the Arkansas River at Wichita, then on to Abilene, our destination. There Montgomery sold his cattle, to be delivered in Idaho, beyond the Snake River. George Hill, W. F. Montgomery, Bill Henderson and George Mohle left for Texas, while Bill Montgomery and myself started with the herd to Idaho. We went from Abilene to the Big Blue River, from there to the South Platte, below South Platte City, going up that stream to Julesburg, and crossed the river, from there to the South Platte, below South Platte City, ing oxen we had to have them shod at Cheyenne, as the gravel had worn their hoofs to the quick. After leaving Cheyenne we struck the North Platte River below Fort Fetterman. A few days before we got to Fetterman we made a long drive to water, and when we reached the water, there being no other herds there, we turned our herd loose that night. During the night a herd of five hundred big, fat steers came in, which were being driven to Fetterman, and the drivers, not knowing we were there, turned their herd loose also and mixed with our herd. The next morning we told them that as we were going to Fetterman, they could cut them out when we reached that place. When we arrived at Fetterman we rounded up our herd for them and they went to cutting out, but as they were tenderfeet, they did not succeed very well, and now and then one would come back on them. You old Texas cowboys know what it means for a wild Texas steer to come back on you. When they were through cutting there were sixteen of those big fat steers in our herd which they could not cut out, and we told them our horses were "all in," and we could not cut them, so I made a trade with them, giving sixteen head of lean cattle for their fat ones, and they sure came in mighty handy, as will be shown later on.

We went up the North Platte and struck across to Sweetwater, following the old California immigrant trail, going by the Enchanted Rock and Devil's Gate. There


the cook broke one of the ox yokes and we could not get one, so we had to camp and cut down a small cottonwood tree to make a yoke with a dull axe and the king bolt of the wagon to burn the holes with. Bill assigned that job to me. It took me all evening and all night to burn the six holes in the yoke. We pulled out the next day, and all went well until we reached the Rocky Mountains. It was forty miles across these mountains and two hundred miles around, so we decided to go across them. This was in October and the weather had been good, but we were getting short of grub. The first night in the mountains it came a snowstorm and twenty-five of our horses died and our cattle scattered considerably. All we could do was to push them in the old trail from each side and let them drift along. At this time our sixteen fat steers came in might handy, for when our supply of provisions gave out we began killing them. The meat would freeze in just a little while, so we lived on nothing but beef for over a month. We had no flour, salt or coffee, and nowhere to purchase these things. Only a few trappers and miners were in the country, and they did not have enough to supply us. Our horses all gave out and we had to walk and drive our diminishing herd. We had plenty of money, but could not buy any horses because there were none to buy. However, one day a miner came along with eight big U. S. mules, and Bill purchased them. We thought those big mules would relieve our troubles, but when I saddled one of them and went after the cattle he did not last an hour, for he could not climb the mountains. We managed to secure a few more horses from miners, and after pushing on for another ten days we reached Salt Valley, where we laid over for several days while three of the men went back into the mountains to gather up cattle we had left, numbering about three hundred head. Bill Montgomery pulled on with the herd and I took a man and a pack mule and also went back into the mountains to try to gather more of


the missing cattle. I found about fifty of them and hired a trapper to take them to Ogden, while I and my man returned to overtake the main herd, which was about ten days ahead of us. We camped one night near a big lake on the. trail and next morning we found the tracks of a big grizzly bear in the snow within ten yards of where we slept. We had our heads covered up, and I suppose he could not smell us as he passed our camp.

We did not overtake the herd until they reached Snake River. There Noah Ellis, who had taken one herd on to the man we had sold to, returned to us. From there on we had no trouble, but soon reached our destination and delivered the cattle to Mr. Shelly. Bill Montgomery then bought one hundred and fifty mules from Shelly, paying $75 to $100 each for them, and started them to Branyon to ship them to Missouri, where he expected to sell them for good prices. I took stage for Ogden to get the cattle I had sent there by the trapper, and when I arrived there I sold the cattle and went on to Branyon to meet Bill. I had to wait several days for him to arrive, and when he got there, Noah Ellis and I pulled out for Texas, arriving at Lockhart on Christmas Eve.

In the spring of 1871 my brother, M. A. Withers, and I gathered a herd and started it to Kansas, but when we reached Belton we sold the herd and I returned home.

In 1873 M. A. Withers, Bill Montgomery and myself drove two herds to market. I was boss of one herd, and a man named Page bossed the other. That was the wettest year I ever saw on the trail. It rained all the time and we had to swim every stream from Red River on. At Fort Worth the cook broke a wagon wheel and after we got it fixed and went on some distance further he broke another wheel. Red River was on a big rise, and the stream was lined with herds, for no herd had been able to cross for a week or more. I asked some of the bosses of the herds there if they were going to tackle the river, and they said they were not, so I told them to give


me room and I would tackle it, for I would rather undertake the crossing than to take chances on a mixup of the herds. They all gave room and helped me to start the cattle into the water. I strung my herd out, had them take the water several hundred yards above where I wanted them to come out. I never saw cattle swim nicer than those steers ; they kept their heads and tails out of the water. I ferried my horses across. We pro- ceeded on our way and when we reached the Washita and Canadian Rivers they were high also, but as they were small streams we had no difficulty in crossing them. Before we reached the Arkansas River I killed a buffalo cow and roped her calf. Intending to take the calf with me, I necked it to a yearling, but it was so wild and stubborn it fought until it died.

After crossing the Arkansas at Great Bend I pulled on to Ellsworth, where I found brother Mark with the front herd, and we delivered our cattle, sent our horses back to Texas and returned home by rail.

In 1874 I sold all of my cattle to Driscoll & Day of Austin, Texas.

My next drive was in 1879, when I bossed a herd for Jim Ellison, which was delivered to Millett Brothers at their ranch on the Brazos River, north of Fort Griffin. The herd was the first to cross the Colorado at Webberville. For about ten miles after crossing the river the country was brushy, but other herds followed us and soon made a good trail through there. We went by way of Georgetown, up the Gabriel and on toward Brownwood. Near Brownwood we turned north, struck the Western Trail near Albany, and on to Fort Griffin to the Millett ranch and delivered the herd. When we started back with the horses I received a telegram from Mr. Ellison instructing me to take stage for Fort Worth and hasten home, as he had another herd for me to take to Ogallala, Nebraska. When I arrived at the ranch Mr. Ellison had two herds which he had purchased from Bob


Stafford at Columbus. Bill Jackman was to take one of those herds to the Millett ranch on the Brazos, so we traveled together, and when we reached Millett's ranch he would not take the cattle, so we threw the two herds together and drove them to Ogallala. We had 5,500 head in this herd, and it was the largest herd ever seen on the trail. It was getting late in the season and water was scarce. We had nine men besides myself, the cook and the horse rustler. All went well until we reached Red River at Doan's Store. There one of my men was taken sick and two of the hands quit, leaving me with only six men to handle the herd. But we made it all right until we reached the Washita River, which was the last water until we got to the Canadian River, a distance of about thirty miles. I made a long drive after leaving the Washita, made a dry camp, expecting to reach the Canadian the next day. But we made slow progress as the weather was hot and we were short three men. About three o'clock the next day after leaving the Washita we were within five miles of the Canadian and the big herd was strung out about four miles. They were as dry as fishes. You old-timers know what that means. We were going up a long divide, the wind was from the west, and about a half mile west of us were some alkali springs. The herd smelled the water from these springs, and back about the middle of the herd they began to break away and go for that water. Right then I thought Mr. Ellison's open Y's would be scattered clear to the Red River. The old-timers know that you had just as well try to handle a bunch of mixed turkeys as to try to keep a thirsty herd away from water. We found good grass at these springs and stopped there for the night and the Indians ran off thirty head of them for us. Next morning I took the trail and went back about five miles to look for the cattle, and when I came up with them I found that the red rascals had killed one old stag. I took the others back to the herd. We reached the Canadian about


noon. When I arrived at Dodge City, Kansas, I hired three men to help us take the herd on to Ogallala, about eighteen days' drive. Mr. Ellison met me at Ogallala and sold the cattle, to be delivered at Sidney Bridge on the North Platte.

After replenishing our grub supply, we pulled on and struck the North Platte, which we followed up to the Narrows. The "Narrows" is a name given to a ledge of hills which run from the divide to the North Platte River. A herd cannot be driven over these hills, but is forced to travel up the bed of the river for about a mile. The North Platte is a treacherous stream, and full of quicksand. We had to send our chuck wagon around over the hills, and it required all day for the wagon to make the trip. Just above the Narrows, in the valley, we found about one hundred graves, which I was told mark the resting place of men killed in a fight with Indians. From here we traveled up a beautiful valley all the way to Sidney Bridge, where we delivered the cattle, returned to Ogallala, paid off the men, and all hit the train for Texas.

During the fall and winter of 1880 I bought cattle in Bastrop and Lee Counties for Mr. Ellison. In the spring of that year I drove another herd of the Y cattle for him, making the start in April. This was a very dry year on the trail. While crossing the Washita we broke a wagon wheel and had to use a pole drag for one hundred and fifty miles to Wolf Creek. As there was no grass in Kansas and it began raining, I laid over on Wolf Creek and sent the wheel fifty miles down the creek to have it fixed. We rested here two weeks. After leaving the Canadian I went ahead of the herd about five miles looking for grass and water and was overtaken by about five hundred Indians. I felt a bit scared as they came up, and they wanted tobacco, and I willingly gave them all I had and moved back to my herd. As we proceeded on our journey Mr. Ellison came to meet us in a buggy. He


remained all night with us, and we slept on a pallet together. Mr. Ellison undressed, but I did not, as I always slept with my entire outfit on, pants, boots and spurs, so as to be prepared for any emergency. During the night the cattle made a run, and when I started to get up one of my spurs caught in Mr. Ellison's drawers and he was rather painfully spurred. The next morning we cut out the weakest cattle in our herd and Mr. Ellison sent them back to his Panhandle ranch.

I have been around cattle during many bad nights, but the night Otis Ivey was killed by lightning was the worst one I ever experienced. Ivey and his horse and about twenty head of cattle were killed during the storm. Mr. Lytle sent out from Dodge after his body and had it sent to his mother in West Fork, Caldwell County, Texas. We often used lanterns around the herds at night, but on that night a lantern was not needed, for the lightning flashed so continuously and so bright we could see everything plainly and smell burning brimstone all the time. When we reached Dodge we had our last grass, for there was not enough on the range to feed a goose. From Fort Dodge to Stinking Water was usually fifteen days' drive, but I made it that year in twelve days. I would leave the bed ground in the morning, drive until noon, round up in the trail for two or three hours, drive on until night and round up again. For twelve days the cattle had no grazing, but had plenty of water. Cattle, if given plenty of water, can go a long while with but little to eat. But unless you give them water at least every twenty-four hours you will have trouble. After reaching Stinking Water we had plenty of grass and we grazed them on to Ogallala.

I had to wait at Ogallala for Sam Moore, for Mr. Ellison had told us to take some steers to a man near the Red Cloud Agency. Bill Jackman came up and Mr. Ellison told us the contract called for 1,000 cows, 1,000 yearling steers and not less than 700 two-year-old steers.


He found us cutting some long yearlings for twos, and said, "Dick, a Texan is going to receive those cattle, and he knows ones from twos." Anyway, we cut and got our supply, then pulled out over to the North Platte up to Sidney Bridge, then followed the Deadwood road. When near the Red Cloud Agency I saw my first Indian buried on a scaffold. I was ahead of the herd at the time, and saw something I took for a well and, being pretty dry, I decided to go to it and get a drink. But instead of being a well it was a dead Indian on a scaffold. It was the custom of the Indians to bury in that fashion, and everything the dead Indian had owned in life was left there. After that we saw a great many Indian graves like that.

Reaching the ranch where we were to deliver these cattle I found the Texan that Mr. Ellison said knew one-year-old steers from twos, and we went to work classing the cattle. We never disagreed on a single steer, and when we were through I found that out of 1,000 yearlings and 700 twos, I had delivered 800 ones and 900 twos. When we got back to Ogallala I gave Mr. Ellison the receipt, and after looking at it he said, "Dick, bring all the boys to the hotel for dinner," and he paid my fare home.

Early in January, 1881, I commenced buying cattle for Mr. Ellison. That year, when starting up the trail, I went through the mountains by way of Llano and Brady City. I had bought 500 head on the Colorado near Buffalo Gap and had to take that route to receive them. They had been gathered when I reached there, so I road-branded them and pulled out for Fort Griffin, Doan's Store on Red River, Dodge City, and Ogallala. When we reached Ogallala Mr. Ellison told me he had 6,500 cattle he wanted me to take to Belle Fourche, Wyoming, deliver them and bring the horses back to Ogallala, sell them, pay the men off, and return home. So I got my supplies, pointed the herd over to the North Platte, followed that


stream up to Sidney Bridge, where we took the Deadwood road to Running Water, then turned west to Crazy Woman, thence to the Cheyenne, up that river to Lodge Pole, leaving the Black Hills and Devil's Tower to our right. Then there was nothing there but a ranch, but now there is a railroad and the town of North Craft.

I am living at Boyes, Montana, now about one hundred miles from where I delivered those cattle on the Belle Fourche River below the old ranch. I went from Lodge Pole down the canyon to the Belle Fourche River, and within a week had the cattle branded and delivered. That was in September, and as some of the boys wanted to wash up before starting back to Ogallala, several of our outfit went buffalo hunting and we killed all the buffalo we wanted. Those were the last buffalo I have seen.

In 1882 Mr. Ellison sent me to East Texas and Louisiana to buy cattle, as they were getting scarce in our country. I bought two trainloads and shipped them from Longview, Texas, to Kyle. In March we began rounding up for the spring drive. Mr. Ellison said he wanted me to drive a herd of beef cattle, and told me to pick out my remuda. Out of five hundred horses I selected ninety head of the best that ever wore the Y brand. I started on this trip with 3,520 fours and over, and delivered 3,505. Mr. Ellison asked me just before we started when I would get to Dodge City. I figured a while, and then told him June 10th. He said he didn't think I could make it by that date, "But," he added, "if you do, you can make it to Deadwood, South Dakota." He informed me that it was an Indian contract and had to be made on time. "You make it on time and I will pay your way home and give you a good suit of clothes," said Mr. Ellison. I got my clothes and my fare paid back home.

That was the most enjoyable trip I ever made. I could drive as far in a day as I wanted to. Those steers walked like horses, and we made good time all the way. Mr. Ellison went broke that year.



By Joseph Cotulla of Cotulla, Texas

I was born in Grosslelitch, Germany, then Poland, March 19, 1844, and came to America with my mother and grandmother in 1856. We landed at Galveston in December of that year, from whence we journeyed to Indianola and then to San


Antonio in an ox wagon, arriving in San Antonio in 1857. From San Antonio we went to Gallinas, Atascosa County, where my aunt and sisters lived. They came to America only the year before we came. I secured work with a Frenchman at four dollars per month, remaining with him a year and a half, saved my wages and bought a horse for forty dollars. I rode that horse just half a day and he died. Thus I gained my first real experience. I was next employed by Joe Walker, the first county clerk of Atascosa County, for six dollars per month. I remained with him until 1862, when I went to work for Ben Slaughter, who lived at La Parita, and he paid me seven dollars per month Confederate money. Later Ben and John Slaughter, Lee Harris, the two Forrest boys and an Englishman named Moody, and myself, started to Mexico, and while on the way we stopped one day and took dinner with John Burleson. The dinner was fine, the menu consisting of cornbread and clabber, and we enjoyed it immensely, for we were all very hungry and could have eaten the skillet the bread was cooked in.


After bidding John good-bye we resumed our journey down the river, crossing the Presidio to our destination. After a short stay in Matamoras, John and Ben Slaughter returned to Texas, Moody went to England, and I went to New Orleans, where I enlisted in the Federal Army in 1863, remaining with the troops nearly two years. After receiving my discharge in San Antonio I went back to Gallinas and began to work for myself, branding mavericks. In March, 1868, I went to Nueces and drove a herd from the Altito to Abilene, Kansas, for L. B. Harris. We crossed these cattle below San Juan Mission, going by way of Austin, Waco and Dallas, crossing the Red River about eight miles above Fort Arkansas, passing through the Indian Territory and crossing Little Arkansas River, then on to Abilene. When we reached Abilene we found only a log cabin and three houses on Smoky River. We remained there until fall, then returned with our horses and wagon.

In November, 1868, Dick Hildebrandt, Ed Lyons, Gilbert Turner, L. P. Williams and myself came out to Nueces and located. We gathered fed beeves that year and sold them to Fred Malone, Joe Collins, Thomas and Shanghai Pierce (the man who introduced the walking stick in Kansas). In the spring of 1869 I went back to Atascosa County, where I remained until fall, then came back and we started a ranch, all working together until 1873, when we started up the trail with two herds of cattle. I drove the first herd to my place in Atascosa County, from where I put them on the trail, going by way of San Juan Mission and Austin. We never saw a house until we crossed the trail where the town of Sherman is now located. On this trip we saw a number of Indians, but they did not molest us. When we reached Wichita, Kansas, I sold my cattle to a man named Polk, who beat me out of five thousand dollars. I lost seven thousand dollars on that trip. When I came back in the fall I bought Dick Hildebrandt's interest in cattle and in


1874 drove a herd by myself, which I sold for enough to make up the money I had lost, and I never went up the trail any more.

Now, at the age of seventy-six, I am still in the cattle business and living in the same place I located in 1868.


Sketch of John R. Blocker of Big Wells, Texas

The history of the old-time trail drivers would not be complete without a sketch of the above named gentleman, who is too modest to write of his experiences on the trail, and it therefore falls to the lot of the editor to perform this task.

John R. Blocker was born in South Carolina, in the Edgefield district of the Palmetto State, about sixty- seven years ago, and came to Texas with his parents in 1852, locating at Austin when that city was just a "wide place in the road." He grew to manhood there, being educated in the schools of that place, and in 1871 he engaged in the cattle business in Blanco County with his brother, W. R. Blocker. At that early date Blanco County was but sparsely settled, the ranches being many miles apart, for it was truly on the frontier and a wild, uncivilized country.

When trail driving started with the opening of the Northern markets after the Civil War, the Blocker brothers were among those to realize the opportunity afforded the cattlemen, and, starting with 500 head of stock, they soon became extensively engaged in the cattle industry. John R. Blocker, being a hardy, self-reliant young man, and a good horseman, was especially fitted for trail life. He was a good judge of live-stock and realized the possibilities that awaited the man who started out with a determination to succeed in the stock business. His first drive up the trail was to Ellsworth,




Kansas, in 1873, and he sold his herd at such a good figure that he sent herds every year from that time on until the trail closed, driving herds to Kansas, Colorado, Nebraska, the Dakotas, Wyoming and Montana. One year, 1886, he was interested in 82,000 head of cattle on the trail at one time, and on his last drive in 1893 he delivered 9,000 head of steers to a buyer at Deadwood, South Dakota.

On one of his trips, 1885, when he had 25,000 steers on the drive, he was held up at Fort Camp Supply by Cherokee and Kansas ranchmen, who refused to allow him to proceed to his destination. After repeated appeals to the War Department, he succeeded in getting a troop of cavalry sent to pilot him through to the place where he was to deliver the cattle. George West, another prominent cattleman of Southwest Texas, was with Mr. Blocker in this fight .and won out with him in reaching the market. That year the trail through Kansas was closed, and stockmen were forced to go further west through Colorado to get to the Northern markets and ranges.

In 1881 Mr. Blocker was married to Miss Annie Lane, the daughter of Dr. and Mrs. R. N. Lane of Austin, Texas. To them were born four children, William Bartlett Blocker, Laura Blocker, Susie Blocker and R. Lane Blocker.

Shortly after the organization of the Texas Cattle Raisers' Association Mr. Blocker became a member of that organization, and has given his assistance in every way possible to the improvement of the cattle industry in this state.

When George W. Saunders began to agitate the question of organizing the old-time trail drivers into an association, Mr. Blocker was among the first to lend encouragement to the plan, and when organization of the Old Time Trail Drivers was finally perfected he was unanimously chosen as its first president.



Captain John T. Lytle was born at McSherry's Town, Pennsylvania, October 8, 1844, and came to Texas with his father's family in 1860. The family located in San Antonio, and the subject of this sketch, then only sixteen years old, went to work on the ranch of his uncle, William Lytle, fifteen miles southeast of San Antonio. In 1863 he enlisted in Company H, 32nd Texas Cavalry, Wood's Regiment, and served in DeBray's Brigade in the TransMississippi Department until the close of the war. After the surrender Captain Lytle returned home and spent two years on his uncle's ranch, at the end of which time he decided to go into business on his own account, engaging in the ranch business in Frio County, until 1873. For more than fifteen years he directed the movement of thousands of head of cattle on the trail, handling more than 450,000 longhorns and delivering them in Kansas, Colorado, Montana and other states and territories. During this time he directed investments in livestock aggregating $9,000,000, a record never before equalled. In 1875 he disposed of his ranch holdings in Frio County and leased pastures in Frio and Maverick Counties, where he raised stock for market despite the fact that most of his time was taken up with his immense trail operations. In this business Captain Lytle had three partners, John W. Light, T. M. McDaniel and Captain Charles Schreiner. The S —L and L —M brands used by these firms were known throughout the Southwest.

In 1879 Captain Lytle moved to a ranch in Medina County, twenty-five miles south of San Antonio, where he resided until 1904, when he moved to Fort Worth, and there resided until his death, which occurred in 1907.

The thriving town of Lytle, in Atascosa County, was named in honor of this remarkable character, who was universally loved and admired by his co-workers in the livestock industry and by all who knew him.





Joseph Daniel Jackson is another member of the Old Trail Drivers' Association who has become prominent in the cattle industry of the state, making his start during the old trail days. He


was born in Bell County, Texas, in 1861. He has been identified with some of the big projects of the state and is usually found working for any movement that is for the betterment of the cattle industry.

Mr. Jackson's home is at Alpine, where he has extensive ranch holdings. He formerly ranched in Tom Green and Taylor Counties. At one time he owned the Monahan ranch of 60,000 acres in West Texas, but later disposed of it to Albert Sidney Webb. A few years ago he controlled three hundred sections of land in Brewster County and his cowboys could graze his cattle a straight thirty-five miles without encroaching on the land of a neighbor.

In December, 1889, Mr. Jackson was married to Miss Dorcas Ford, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Isaac Ford of Holland, Bell County, Texas. They have two children, Miss Una Jackson and Ford Jackson.



Thomas Atlee Coleman was born in Goliad County, Texas, in 1861. He spent his young manhood in trailing cattle to Montana and the Northwestern ranges. Owing to quarantine restrictions preventing the driving of


cattle from South Texas to those ranges, Mr. Coleman secured ranch holdings on the line near the present location of Childress, where he wintered his cattle and then moved them north the following year. It is estimated that fully ten thousand cattle were trailed north annually on these drives.

At the present time Mr. Coleman is one of the most prominent stockmen in the state, controlling ranches in Dimmit and LaSalle Counties and other parts of the country. Some years ago he purchased the famous Milmo Ranch in the Republic of Mexico, containing more than a million acres, for which he paid $3,500,000. He is also prominent in the business and commercial circles of San Antonio, being identified with a number of enterprises in this city.



By Joe S. Clark, Orange Grove, Texas

Early in the spring of 1870 thirteen of the noblest men that ever crossed the plains rounded up fifteen hundred cattle at Flag Springs, near where the present town of Taylor is located, and headed them for California. Everything went along well until we reached Mustang


Pens, near the head of the Concho River, where two of our boys had a shooting scrape, and Ewing was killed. We continued our journey and when near Grand Falls, on the Pecos River, the Indians furnished us some excitement. They tried to stampede our horses every few nights, but we had a strong guard and they failed to get our stock. We passed on up into New Mexico, going by way of Las Cruces, and JOE S. CLARK went into camp for the winter on the Mimbres River. While we were there we had a good time and lots of sport going to the fandangoes and bull fights and matching pony races.

In the spring of 1871 five of us, with our Spanish mules hitched to a covered wagon and two men on horseback started on the back trail for home. On our trip we saw many bands of Indians and every day we could see their signal smokes and their signal fires at night. They did not attempt to attack us in the daytime, so we would camp early in the evening and allow the mules to rest, then as soon as darkness enveloped us we could


hitch up and drive ten or fifteen miles and camp without making a fire.

One morning we drove up within five hundred yards of a big band of Indians. We got our guns and made ready for a fight, seeing which the savages went away, leaving us unmolested. When we reached the Concho and Colorado Rivers I saw my first buffalo. There seemed to be thousands of these animals in that region at that season.

We reached Austin when the first railroad was being built to that point, and I went to working on the railroad. After a few years of that kind of work I turned my attention to farming and ranching, and thus found more good sleep and more to eat, so I stuck to the farm. I have four boys who went with the Stars and Stripes across the sea and were in some of the hottest engagements of the 36th and 90th Divisions, but they all got back home 0. K.


Away out in Jeff Davis


County, Texas, there resides an old trail driver and cowman, who has achieved success in his chosen field of operations. That man is John Z. Means, known all over West Texas as "the mildest mannered gentleman that ever drove a cow."

John Means was born at old Fort McKavett, in Me- nard County, Texas, in 1854, JOHN Z. MEANS when that town was occupied by soldiers to check the raids of Indians. He grew to manhood in that part of the state, and did his full share in the work of ridding the West of the outlaw and


the cattle rustler. For many years he lived in Lampasas County, but with the encroachment of the fence builder and the farmer he moved further west, where he acquired extensive holdings in Jeff Davis and other counties, and today is rated as one of the wealthy men of that section.

In November, 1877, he was married to Miss Exie Gay of San Saba, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Sam A. Gay, and to them were born seven children, who have taken prominent places in the social and business life of the state.


George Wesley Evans, now a prominent ranchman of Jeff Davis County, was born at LaGrange, Texas, October 12, 1849, and has spent his life on the frontier


of this state. He resided in Fayette County until the early eighties, and when that section began to settle up he moved to the Davis Mountains in Western Texas, where he has resided ever since, following the stock business successfully and becoming one of the prominent cattlemen of that region. As long as the range was open he raised the old Texas longhorns for market, but with the coming of wire fences he began to import Durham and Hereford bulls, and his herds of whitefaces are now among the best in the Southwest.

In 1878 Mr. Evans was married to Miss Kate Isabel Means, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Frank Means of Lampasas County. Their children are William F., Joe M.,


Lee S., G. W. Jr., Rube M., Ell B., Paul M., Katie Grace, and Amos Graves Means.

Mr. Evans resides at Valentine, Texas.


A few years ago John J. Lomax, the author of several books bearing on the life of the cowboys and cattlemen of Texas, made an address before a folklore society meeting at San Marcos.

While it is true that there are many changes in the cattle country —as witness the introduction and general use of the automobile where a few years ago the big camp meetings or neighborhood gatherings saw the "ambulances," or "buggies" or "buckboards"—sufficient of the picturesque old life remains in Southwest and West Texas to give a vivid idea of how it was in the days of the trail. He drew this picture of the Texas cowboy. his speech and mode of living :

Prior to taking a herd of cattle up the trail from Texas to Montana or the Dakotas, occurred the spring roundup, which might include a range of country 100 miles in diameter. Of course, in such a stretch of land there would be a number of cattle owners. These would all join forces, and after days of hard riding would bring together in a single herd all the cattle running on this range. On this roundup ground the cattle are "worked" ; that is, the calves following their mothers are branded and marked with the decorations employed by their owners, or they are cut into groups either for purposes of sale or for further identification. Those cut out are called the "cut", the specially trained horses used for this work, so intelligent that you can remove the bridle after the animal to be cut is indicated, and the horse will separate the cow from the bunch with unerring instinct, are called "cutting horses," "carving horses" or


"chopping horses." When fences became more common the calves were cut out through a cutting chute or "dodged out" so they could be counted. Some cattlemen now employ a branding chute, where an arrangement for holding the cattle while they are being branded is called a "squeezer" or "snappin' turtle." In branding cattle, a cowboy, after the rope has dragged the animal near the fire, throws him by "tailing" or "flanking." "Flanking" consists in seizing the animal by the skin of the flank opposite the cowboy, with his arm thrown over the animal's back. When the animal jumps with all four feet off the ground, the cowboy, by a jerk, throws it on its side; or he "bulldogs" them by twisting the neck, or "tails" him by giving a sudden jerk on the tail when some of the animal's feet are off the ground. I once saw a cowboy "flank" a calf in such a fashion that he threw him completely on his back with all four feet in the air. "See him sun his moccasins," said another cowboy who stood near. When the flanker and assistants have the animals stretched on the ground they call out "hot iron" or "sharp knife," the brander responding, "Right here with the goods." Ordinarily the brand is put on by stamping with an iron stamp carrying one, two or three letters, and the different brands and marks employed, like "Flying U" and the "Lazy S," are so various as to require a separate paper to give them adequate description. A "running iron" is a branding iron made of a straight piece of iron with a curve at one end. This end is heated red hot and the branding artist is thus enabled to "run" any letter he wishes to put on the side of the animal. Some .of the terms used in marking are "crop," "under bit," "over bit," "half crop," "split," "over slope," "under slope," etc. A "jingle bob" is to split the ear to the head and let the pieces flap. A jug handled "dewlap" is a cut in the fleshy part of the throat, also used sometimes as a mark of distinction. Roping a cow is sometimes referred to as "putting your string on


her. " If a cowboy ropes a cow without hitching the rope to the saddle, "he takes a dolly welter," evidently a corruption of Spanish. To "fair ground" is to rope an animal by the head, throw the rope over the back while still running and then throw the animal violently to the ground, where it will usually lay until "hog tied"; tying three feet together, "side lined," tying two feet together on the same side, or "hoppled," both hind legs tied together. To tell the age of an animal, the cowboy "tooths" him, meaning to make an examination of the teeth, as is commonly done in the case of horses, which gives fairly accurate indication of their ages.

In a cattle outfit the owner is called the "big boss," the leader of any particular bunch of men is called the "boss," his first lieutenant is called the "straw boss," or right-hand man, sometimes called the "top screw" or "top waddy." The chief of any group of line riders is a "line boss," while the boss of a herd on the trail is the "trail boss." Ordinarily, a cowboy is a "waddy" or "screw" or "buckaroo." A green cow hand is called a "lent," and his greenness is expressed by the word "lenty." He is also sometimes called "Arbuckle," on the assumption that the boss sent off Arbuckle premium stamps to pay for the extraordinary services of the greenhorn. The "stray man" is the cowboy's name for one who goes to the neighboring ranches after stray cattle. The "fence rider," also called the "line rider," is employed to ride fences and repair them. Before the day of fences, line riding was following an imaginary line between two ranches and turning the cattle back. The "line rider" has charge of a "line camp." In addition to the "chuck wagon," a second wagon for carrying the extra beds and bringing wood and water into camps sometimes goes along. This equipage is called the hoodlum wagon and the man who drives it is "the hood." The cabin where the bachelor cowboys sometimes sleep in very bad weather is called a "hooden." A "bog


rider" is the cowboy who "tails" up the poor cows which get stuck in the mud. The "chuck wagon" is the cowboy's home ! the chuck box is his store ; the chuck box lid his table. After a meal, if a luckless cowboy happens to put his tin plate and cup on the chuck box lid instead of the "round pan" (a tin tub for dishes), this constitutes a "leggins case"; that is, he is laid over a barrel and treated to a dose of leggins in the hands of the most athletic cowboy. The chief man about the camp is the cook, his play usually equaling that of any of the men, and his expertness in preparing food remarkable when one considers his cook-stove, a hole in the ground, and his cooking utensils, skillets and pots. Naturally, the cook, his play usually equaling that of any of the men, " sheffi, " "dough roller," " dinero, " "coocy" and "biscuit shooter." His invariable cry when calling the men to a meal is "Come and git it!"

I think I may claim that these few samples of cowboy lingo are characterized by simplicity, strength and directness, and, it may be added, accuracy. I knew' a saloon once in the West known as "The Wolf", another that was aptly named with a big flaring sign on the outside, "The Road to Ruin." Out in Arizona there is a town called Tombstone, and the leading paper of that town has named itself the Tombstone Epitaph. Let me add a few of his miscellaneous expressions. Of a tall man he does not like, the cowboy says "He's just as long as a snake and he drags the ground when he walks." Of a fool he says, "He has no more sense than a little nigger with a big navel," or "He He don't know dung from wild honey." Although a cow is one of the most stupid of animals, when a cowboy says that a man has good "cow sense" he means to pay him a high compliment. When he means a thing is easy, he says "It's just as easy as gutting a slut" ; of washing his face, "bathing out your countenance" or "washing the profile" ; of bathing, "washing out your canyon"; of vomiting, "airing the


paunch" ; an "eye-bailer" is a person who pokes himself into other people's business ; going courting is "goin' gallin'," "sitting the bag," "sittin' her"; "Cutting a rusty" means doing your best; moving fast is "f aggin','' "leffin' here" or "sailing away," "dragging his navel in the sand" ; "goin' like the heel flies are after him." A very small town is a wide place in the road. A "two-gun man" is a man who uses a gun in each hand, often at the same time. A man quick to retort is said to have a "good come-back." "Telling a windy" means telling a boastful story ; a "goosy" man is a man physically nervous. When a man plays the deuce spot in a card game, he is said to be "laying down his character." To "fork a horse" is to ride him ; when a man is without information on a subject, he tells you, "I ain't got any medicine" ; "anti-godlin" means going diagonally or in a roundabout way. The "roust-about" is a man of all work about a camp. "Sweating a game," means doing nothing but sitting around looking at a card game. "Tie your hats to the saddle and let's ride" means to go on a long hurry-up roundup. The boss' house is referred to as the "White House." When a fellow makes a night of it, he is said to have "stayed out with the dry cattle." When a delicate situation arises there is said to be "hair in the butter." The water on the plains is sometimes so muddy that the cowboy says "he has to chew it before he can swallow it." When he has gained a little more experience on a proposition, he says he "has taken a little more hair off the dog." When there is room for doubt about his knowledge he is said to know as much about it as " a hog does about a side saddle." A man who is good at roping is said to "sling the catgut well." Damp, freezing weather is characterized as cold as "a well digger in Montana." Riding on a freight train in place of paying regular fare on a passenger train is said to be "saving money for the bartender." Ordinary stealing is "yamping. " "Plumb locoed" is quite crazy. A


very black negro is characterized as a "headlight to a snowstorm."

Living in isolated groups, visiting but little except among these groups, rarely going to town, shy and timid as a result of long days of solitude, the cowboy develops his own form of speech. Cowboy words, phrases and customs therefore easily become community property— his language a dialect of his own. In closing this paper I cannot refrain from giving you one or two cowboy graces repeated indiscriminately either before or during a meal, and I shall end finally with some of his most characteristic dance calls. On some future occasion, if I am invited, and if I am provided with just the right kind of an audience, I engage myself to reed a paper on cowboy profanity. There is a certain wholesome strength, cleanliness and variety in his profanity, and even his vulgarity, that I do not believe is equaled by any other race of men. The rhyme dance calls are supplementary to his spoken directions to the dancers, and add almost as much interest and loveliness of the dance as does the music. Here are two cowboy graces :

"Eat the meat and leave the skin ;
Turn up your plate and let's begin."

Yes, we'll come to the table
As long as we're able,
And eat every damn thing
That looks sorter stable.

The rhymed dance calls are chanted between the shorter calls and are supplementary to them :

Swing your partners round and round;
Pocket full of rocks to hold me down ;


Ducks in the river going to ford,
Coffee in a little rag ; sugar in the gourd.

Swing 'em early, swing 'em late ;
Swing 'em round Mr. Meadow's gate.

Ladies to the center, how do you do;
Right hands cross, and how are you!

Two little ladies, do si do,
Two little gents you orter know.

Swing six when you all get fixed,
Do si, ladies like picking up sticks.

Chicken in the bread tray kicking up dough ;
"Granny, will your dog bite?" "No, No, by Joe."

Swing corners all,
Now your pardners and promenade the hall.

You swing me, and I'll swing you;
All go to heaven in the same old shoe.

Same old road, same old boy,
Dance six weeks in Arkansaw.

Walk the huckleberry shuffle and Chinese' cling.
Elbow twist and double L swing.


By Hiram G. Craig of Brenham

It was in the year of 1850 that my father and mother, John and Caroline Craig, decided to make their home in that great state of the future— Texas. Suiting the words with action, they hitched up their two bay (baldfaced) mares to the wagon, taking such belongings as


were absolutely necessary, and started on the long and perilous journey from Tennessee to Texas. Their destination was Washington County, and they landed in the western part, in the neighborhood called Sandtown—so named by my uncle.

My parents must have suffered many hardships in those days of privations, raising as they did, a large family of seven boys and two girls. My father was a teamster. He hauled freight with an ox team from Houston to Austin, hauled cotton from Washington County to Brownsville, on the Rio Grande, and hauled salt, loose in the wagon bed, on his way back from the King ranch, home. He made several trips to Brownsville ; also, one to Eagle Pass, Texas.

I remember one trip I made with him from our home to Alleyton, Colorado County. This was our nearest railroad station, and at that time the terminus of the Southern Pacific Railway. We were hauling cotton. In those days wagons had wooden axles with an iron skean, and lynchpins to hold the wheels on the axle.

On these trips father would take one horse along to round up the oxen. At night, or when camping, he would have a bell for each yoke of oxen, would neck them and put a hobble on one of the oxen of each yoke. I made a number of short trips with my father, as I could be of some help in rounding up the oxen and hold them while he put the yoke on them. Often he would also be breaking in a yoke or two of wild oxen. On this particular trip when we got as far as Frelsburg, where we broke an axle, and as there were few people living in the country at that time, we were in a bad way. No houses, no tools to work with, not a blacksmith within twenty miles. Here my father accomplished something that nine men out of ten of these days and times would fail in. The only tool at hand was an axe. With this axe father cut down a hickory tree, cut it the proper length, and with the axe hewed out an axle. He got on his horse and rode


to the next neighbor, where he got an auger. At that time such a thing as a "brace and bit" were unheard of. With the auger he bored the holes for the hound and skean and put the wagon together. He unloaded and loaded the cotton by himself, as I was too small to do any lifting. We wound up our trip by delivering the cotton to the railway company and returned home to Washington County.

I used to plow, many, many a day with a single ox and a plow, made entirely of wood, with the exception of the point, which was of iron. Even the moldboard (the part that turns the dirt) was of timber. Father would cut a short piece of some twisted oak tree, split it open— which would almost have the shape, then hew it down to fit the point of iron and attach the handles with wooden pins— and the plow would work fine.

A word about my dear mother : During the Civil War such things as clothing, shoes, flour, salt, sugar and coffee were scarce and high— very often not to be had at any price. Flour was selling at twenty dollars per barrel. Mother, my oldest sister and my second oldest brother, carded the roll and mother spun the thread that made our clothes during the war. The work allotted to me was to hand the threads through the sleigh— at which I became quite an expert. If these threads, in any way became crossed, they would not weave. Often mother would send me to the neighbor ladies to help them with this line of work. I also peeled the blackjack bark and gathered the wild indigo to dye the cloth that made our clothes. My second oldest brother was a cripple and could not work in the field, so mother kept him in to help her with the weaving. In my mind I can still see my mother at the old spinning wheel.

The young people of today do not realize what "hard times" are. Imagine that most of the flour you were to see would be a feast of biscuits on a Sunday morning for breakfast, and then some more the next Sunday morning.


Imagine for your coffee a substitute of corn, roasted potato peeling and cornmeal bran. These were some of our luxuries. Of meats we were more bountifully blessed. Cattle were more plentiful and cheap ; pork was more abundant. Hogs were running loose in the woods, and the mast was so good that hogs were generally fat in winter.

Father died at Bellville, Texas, at the age of fifty- four, and mother died in Washington County at the age of forty-four. This left the family in the hands of my oldest brother, who faithfully and conscientiously administered to our wants until we were able to take care of ourselves.

I was born at Sandtown in 1855 and lived here with my parents to the end of the Civil War, when we moved to Bellville, Austin County, Texas. Father was the proud possessor of a small bunch of cattle, and created a desire in me to be a cowboy to have a good horse, saddle, leggings, spurs and to handle cattle. At fourteen years of age I ran away from home and went to work for Foster Dyer of Richmond, known as one of the biggest ranch owners of that time. I was proud of my job, which, however, was of short duration. My brother learned of my whereabouts and came and took me home. I remained at home with my parents for three years, when the call to the "wild" again overcame me.

This time it was T. J. Carter, who was .studying to be a doctor, and I, that went on a wild goose chase in 1872. We landed at Sweet Home and hired out to George West, to help gather a herd of steers for the trail for Kansas. We gathered between 1,500 and 2,000 head of steers. There were no pens or corrals to hold such a large herd. We held and herded these steers on the prairie by day and by night. The boys would herd them in shifts, or reliefs ; one shift of men would herd them from four to six hours (according to the number of shifts), when the next shift would relieve them, so that


the cattle would be continually guarded. This work is hard and trying, and at our age seemed severe ; however, we ,stayed with the herd until they were actually started on the trail, and then went home to Washington County. Carter went back to his profession, and is today a practicing physician in Fayette County, having made good.

In the fall of 1873 J. D. McClellan and I went to Oakville, Live Oak County, and worked for Andrew Nations and his son, Bob Nations, helping them gather 1,500 stocker cattle to be moved to the Wichitas. Our headquarters were at Sulphur Creek, about ten miles north of Oakville. We gathered up and down the Nueces River, as far down as Lagarto. We were short of cow hands— who were hard to get. Bob Nations decided to make a trip to San Antonio and get the necessary complement of men. The best he could do was to get a bunch of "brakemen," as he called them. These men were no good at riding or at handling cattle, being unaccustomed to the work. We were holding the herd on a prairie near the Nueces River bottom. The cattle were wild and some of them would make a break every now and then and, as sure as an animal would make a run, the trained cow pony, with his "brakeman," would take after it— and we would be minus a "brakeman."

Tom Johnson was our trail boss. He was one of the best men I ever knew, when it came to handling stock cattle on the trail. He taught me every detail in "grazing" a herd. Johnson was very fractious and hard to get along with, and Bob Nations said he doubted very much in our going through on the trip with Johnson.

The herd was started early in the spring with Johnson as foreman, everything progressing nicely. We were obliged to swim all the rivers on account of heavy spring rains, but suffered no loss of cattle. We reached Lockhart and then Onion Creek, near Austin. Here at Onion Creek we had a little stampede, for which I was blamed.


It brought on words between the foreman and I. Naturally, I was discharged and McClellan quit.

Bob took McClellan and me on to Austin, and asked us to accompany him and his family west, and assured us work as long as we cared to stay. As he started out of Austin we told him we would overtake him on the way later. But, alas, there was a drawing card back home, in Washington County, that was stronger than even a promise. McClellan had a girl there and so did 1, so we went home.

That summer J. W. Nunn bought out a meat market in Brenham and McClellan went to work for him, while I did the buying and supplying of live stock for the market. McClellan lived only three months after that, leaving me without a pal. I continued working for Nunn.

In June, 1876, we gathered about 1,400 head of Nunn's cattle and started for the Plains. We left Dime Box, Lee County, June 10, 1876. We herded the cattle on the first night at Lexington, Lee County, in a wide lane. The second night we camped near Beaukiss in the woods. There were two of the Nunn boys, both much older than I, but neither they nor any of the other hands had ever "bedded" a herd. It was up to me to take charge of my first large herd. We rounded the cattle into a circle in the woods, dragging logs around the bed grounds and built fires. There were clouds rising and about 11 o'clock that night it began thundering, lightning and raining. The cattle got restless and stampeded, running all night. The third day we crossed the, Brushy Creek, camping near the Olive pens on the Taylor prairie. From here on we had plenty of open country and could handle the herd more easily. We had many ups and downs, being short of horses. Our horses got very poor and were worn out from overwork ; also the cattle got thin in flesh by the time we got to Buffalo Gap in July, and we were also out of provisions, no beef, no coffee, no money. Nunn borrowed a small sum from one Ben


Anderson, one of our hands, and started me off with one yoke of oxen for Coleman City, sixty miles distant, to lay in a supply of "grub."

I bought mostly breadstuff s and coffee, returning to camp a week later. This left us still shy of meat, our cattle being too poor for slaughter. We were told that fifty or sixty miles west there were lots of buffalo, so Nunn got us to rig up a wagon and to go on to the Sweetwater Creek to kill some fat buffalo. We engaged a man by the name of Jim Green at Buffalo Gap, who was a buffalo hunter, and he was to pilot us to the Sweetwater country, and incidentally give us a few pointers on. buffalo hunting. Dr. John Obar, J. T. McClellan (a brother of my former pal), Jim Green and I formed the outfit. We went to Sweetwater, camping near Dan Trent's ranch, and hunted here for two days and saw only two buffalo bulls in this time. The first bull I chased until my horse gave out, shot away all my ammunition, and only drew a little blood.

It will not be amiss to state what our artillery consisted of at that time. We used a long and trusty cap and ball rifle, familiarly known as "Long Tom." Then the old cap and ball sixshooter, sometimes called "outlaws." At times they would behave and fire one shot, and again they would fire two, three or possibly all six chambers at one time. But to revert to our buffalo hunt :

On the second day we found another old, poor buffalo bull. I handed my long rifle to one of the boys and took his sixshooter, and told them I was going to get meat, in which I eventually succeeded. I was riding my own horse, one that I had bought from one of my German friends in Washington County. I had named him "Dutch," had taken good care of this horse, using him only for night herding on the trail, and so he was in good time. He was a keen runner. I took after the buffalo bull, ran him about three miles, emptying my pistol as I chased him. He was a monster and looked like an


elephant to me. Some of the buffalo hunters claimed that our "outlaw" pistols would not kill a big buffalo bull, but I demonstrated that they were wrong, for I put one ball in the right place and stopped the bull. After a bit the boys came up and finished the animal with their "Long Tom" rifle. It took two horses by the horn of the saddle to turn the carcass of the bull on his back so we could skin him. This will give you an idea that he was some bull. We built a fire and kiln-dried the meat. It was not fat, nor what we wanted.

We broke camp and drifted ten miles further north, where we came on to a herd, which we estimated at about 1,000 head. This herd of buffalo was on the move, and going pretty rapidly. When I first got sight of them they were traveling west; they would go down hill on the run, while up the incline of the next hill they would be grazing. I rode around the foot of the hill to head them off and when I reached the ridge of the hill they were coming towards me, and about the same time I heard some shooting, which later proved to be our pilot, Jim Green, who had already got into the herd and put them on a full run. I had some trouble holding down old "Dutch," my horse, when the herd of buffalo came towards us on the run. There was one big red one leading the herd. I killed him first. He proved to be a big red steer, instead of buffalo, and belonged to John Chissum. I then killed one fat buffalo. As I came over the hill I came on to our pilot, who had shot down five, of which one got up on his feet and was making for Jim Green who, by the way, was afoot. I tried to get Green to get on the horse behind me. He declined, saying he "would get him in the sticking place directly," deliberately shooting at the buffalo as he came on. He was holding his sixshooter with both hands to steady his aim and downed him. This gave us six buffalo and one fat steer, with which we struck out for Buffalo Gap.

Another little stunt with a buffalo we pulled off while


at Buffalo Gap. Don Drewry and I were riding out among the cattle, where we came on to a two-year-old buffalo bull. Don boasted that he could and would rope him. I pleaded with him not to risk such a thing, but he declared "old Browny," his horse, could handle him, and had the loop on him in no time. He threw the bull several times, but finally wore out his horse and called to me to shoot the bull. I did so to save his horse. Don admitted that he had taken in "too much territory" that time, and said he would never rope another buffalo larger than a calf.

Old man Drewry, Don's father, and his son-in-law, Tobe Odem, had come to Buffalo Gap from Oakville with cattle and horses. Don was then quite a boy, about 17 or 18 years of age.

Along in September we gathered up the cattle and moved on out to Sandrock Springs, where Nunn located his. ranch on Rough Creek, and is now living and accumulating cattle. That winter I went back home and engaged in buying and selling cattle, at which trade I worked for several years, buying quite a lot of work steers to be shipped to Havana, Cuba.

On December 15, 1881, I was married to Johanna Awalt at Burton, Texas, and lived there about one year. I went west again, locating at Snyder, Scurry County. My brother, J. M. Craig, and I carried a nice bunch of about 300 head of stock cattle with us, but one hard winter put us out of the cattle business and took us back to Washington County, where I now reside. While working our cattle at Snyder, I took a trip west to the head of the Colorado River and here witnessed the largest "roundup" that I ever saw or heard speak of. It was the C. C. Slaughter "roundup," was estimated at 10,000 head of cattle in one herd, covering a prairie one-half mile each way.

For the benefit of those readers who have never seen a large "roundup" like those on the plains in the early


days, I shall endeavor to describe this "roundup," the wonderful system and efficient way in which such an immense number of cattle were handled, cut and assorted, and how each rancher got his cattle. You will understand that these cattle in this roundup were not owned by one individual, but belonged to ranches from a radius of many, many miles, comprising possibly a number of counties. With the exception of perhaps a small corral for the horses at the ranch houses in those early days, fences or pastures were unknown. The country was an open range, and the cattle were grazing in the open prairies, drifting to the four winds. Cattle were known to drift as far as 150 miles north. Each stockman, or ranch, had a line rider, who rode the line or limits of his particular ranch in order to get his cattle "located," or used to their grazing grounds. However vigilant, this would not hold all of his stock. The line rider had to sleep at night, or sometimes, or had so much territory to cover and to guard, that cattle would drift away from their stamping grounds at night, or when the rider may have been engaged at other points of the line. This made it necessary to have the "roundup," and to get the different brands of cattle to their respective owners and ranches. The custom was to have a roundup in the spring of the year, and one in the fall. Word was sent to stockmen for many miles around when the roundup was to take place at a certain ranch. Then eight or ten neighboring stockmen would rig up a "chuck wagon" and place a cook in charge. One of the men would furnish the wagon one time, and. the next time someone else—turn about. These stockmen going with the "chuck wagon" would meet at the appointed time with their saddle horses. Each man having his bedding lashed to a horse when they met the chuck wagon, would pat all their bedding in the wagon. This "chuck wagon" was drawn by two and sometimes four horses. Next they would turn all their saddle horses in a bunch, detail one


of their number as "horse wrangler" and start off for the roundup. At the roundup there would be a number of these chuck wagons or outfits— possibly six or eight or ten such wagons, according to the notices sent out, or the size of the roundup. In the Slaughter roundup there were ten "chuck wagons," and each wagon would receive a number from the roundup boss, making ten numbers—in this case representing some ninety men, or stock owners.

On the evening before the roundup Billy Stanefor, the roundup boss, went to all the wagons and called for two or three men from each wagon to go out from ten to fifteen miles and make what is called a "dry camp." Each man was to stake his horse so that when daylight came every man was ready to follow out instructions to bring all the cattle towards the grounds. The men so sent out, all going in different directions, formed a veritable spider's web, with the roundup grounds in the center. As soon as the boys would "whoop 'em up," the cattle were on the run, and would make for the grounds. There was little danger or chance for any cattle escaping, as when they would leave the path of one man they would drift into the path of the next man, and the nearer they came to the grounds, the more men would come in sight —finally forming one big herd, and then the fun would start. We found on bringing in these cattle in this manner that five buffalo and twenty or more antelope had drifted in with the cattle. Several of the boys, I, for one, were sure we were going to rope an antelope. We got our loops ready and started for them. Our horses were too short, and also a little too slow. We did not rope any antelope. Some of the other boys fired into the buffalo, but did not bring in any meat either. The herd was now ready for cutting. The roundup being on Slaughter's ranch, the foreman, Gus 0. Keith, and his men, including old man Slaughter, cut their beef cattle, cows and calves first, and drove them back on the range


to avoid "housing" them. As soon as Slaughter was through with his part the herd was ready for general work.

Now Billy Stanefor calls out, "No. No. 1 cut and No. 2 hold," meaning that the men from wagon No. 1 were to go into the herd and cut all of their cattle, while the men of wagon No. 2 would hold the herd. No. 1 finished, the roundup boss would call, "No. 2 cut and No. 3 hold" —when No. 2 would go into the herd and cut, while the men from wagon No. 3 were holding the herd, and so on in this manner until the cutting was finished. Then, to the branding of the cattle. This was also all done on the open prairie. We made our fires to heat the branding irons, would rope the calves or cattle, as the case may be, on horseback, drag them to the fire and put the brand on them. It was also the duty of the roundup boss to see that no large calf was cut out of the roundup herd unless it was accompanied by its mother. The roundup boss had to act somewhat in the capacity of a judge. He had to see that all disputes were satisfactorily settled. If trouble arose regarding ownership of an animal the roundup boss would find out what brand each one of the disputing parties were claiming the animal under, and if they could come to no agreement, the animal was roped, the brand moistened with water to make it plainer, or he would shear the hair off where the brand was located, and in that way determine the ownership. All this was done immediately, and then the work would proceed. In those early days the ear-mark would not always be proof of ownership and an animal without brand was called a "sleeper." A sleeper was nominally everybody's property, and was so called because someone had overlooked branding this animal in a previous roundup— had slept on his rights. Naturally, all hands had a leaning towards these sleepers; and I have seen a sleeper cut out of the roundup by one man and during the day changed several times to other bunches. The man that was lucky to get


away with a sleeper would put his brand on him. However, if such an animal had an ear-mark and any of the parties claimed the mark he would then hold the best title.

The roundup boss would let no one ride through the herd and "chouse," or unnecessarily disturb them; these fellows found guilty of such misconduct were called loco'ed." Ofttimes it was known for the roundup boss to put him out of the herd and cut his cattle for him. The whole roundup was conducted in a strictly business way, and such a thing as "red tape" was unknown.

This work being finished, each wagon with its little herd would start for the next roundup. Possibly night would overtake them and pens, being unknown, it would be up to the boys to herd them and "sing" to them, as it was usually called. Each man would rope his night horse and they would herd in shifts.

This night herding is nice and novel in fair weather, and on a nice moonlit night; but when it comes to one of those dark nights of thunder, lightning and the rain pouring down on you, your life is in the hands of God and your faithful night horse. There is to my mind no nobler animal in God's creation than a faithful horse. We would always pick out the clearest-footed, bestsighted horses for this work. All horses can see in the night, and better than a man, but there are some horses that can see better than others.

Boys, in this connection, I wish to relate a little incident of what a horse can do and did at the Slaughter roundup. We were told that the Slaughter ranch possessed two horses that would cut without a bridle, and we asked Gus Keith, the foreman, to let us see the horses perform this feat. He called for two horses, "Old Pompy," a black pacing horse, and "S. B.," a slim bay horse. They rode into the herd and worked an animal towards the edge of the bunch and slipped the bridle. Each horse brought out the right cow and without a miss. This was great work for a dumb animal.


At this roundup I also saw the last wild buffalo.

It was in the year 1880 that I sold Hugh Lewis and Jim Holt, of Brenham, seven hundred steers on a contract to Mr. Runge. The steers were to be delivered at the Runge ranch near Yorktown, De Witt County. They were short of both horses and men and hired my brother and me to go through with the herd to Yorktown. On our way we came to the Colorado River at LaGrange and found the stream on a rampage. We were told of a man that had been drowned at this crossing three days before in trying to cross a herd of cattle. The man had all his clothes on besides a six-shooter. In swimming across he had taken the left point (or lead) to point the cattle across. The cattle began milling in the stream and tried to turn back. He had made the point on his horse, but got into the bunch of milling cattle and both he and his horse went under. He was found two days later some four hundred yards below the crossing. This brought up the question to us: Who would venture to point our herd across ; and, what would it cost to have them pointed? Crowds of people had come from LaGrange to witness the spectacle of a large herd of cattle swimming across the river ; there were men, women and children, all eager to see. I was about the poorest swimmer in the outfit, but had lots of experience in my time, no doubt more than the rest all together. Holt sauntered up to me and asked if I was afraid to point the herd, and what would I charge extra to pull off the stunt. I confessed to him that I was not a good swimmer and was afraid of water, but that I was a hired hand and would not shirk my duty. I had a first-class pony for the work, and told him that I would point the herd if allowed to strip my clothes. He told me the work had to be done, women or no women. When everything was arranged I stripped, mounted my pony bareback and took the left (or lower) point. I struck the water with the cattle and stayed near the lead until they saw the opposite bank, then I led out for the bank


and crossed the cattle without a mishap. From there on we moved along smoothly until we got to the Guadalupe River. Here, at night, my brother, I, and two other boys were herding on first relief. Some old.-timers had told us that it "never rained at night in June," but we had all doubts dispelled here. As we were short of horses, we herded in only two reliefs. After. midnight, as I rode into camp to wake up the second relief, I noticed an approaching storm cloud in the northwest, and before the boys could saddle their horses and get around the herd it was thunder, lightning and a downpour of rain, all in one. The herd started drifting south and there was no way to hold them. They did not stampede, but kept moving, and as it was very dark, we could only see them by the flashes of lightning and drift with them. We must have traveled some three or four miles when I called to my brother to ask what had become of the other two boys. He said they had found a tree and had climbed up in it. We had not heard a sound from them since leaving camp. I knew the man near me was my brother by his voice, as he was always in the habit of singing and talking to the cattle to quiet them. In a stampede there are no "road laws," everything in its path must clear out or get run over. After a few minutes' silence my brother called out : "Everybody look out, trouble ahead; my horse won't go any further ! " A flash of lightning revealed the banks of the Guadalupe River, the cause of his horse refusing to go further. We worked our way back through the cattle, as the river would hold the cattle at this end, and waited for daylight. We found that we had drifted seven miles during the latter part of the night, and just the two of us in charge of the whole herd. Our horses were "all in," for we had ridden them since noon the day before. We figured that we would be off at midnight, when our relief was up, and had not changed for the night relief. This was our last obstacle to speak of from there to the Runge ranch. Steers those days


were bought and sold "by age." When the classing and turning them over to Runge's foreman began, some trouble arose between Jim Holt and the foreman of Runge's ranch as to the age of the steers. Runge's foreman asked Holt if he did not have a man in his outfit that he would entrust with classing for him. Jim Holt had never handled many cattle, and asked me to his classing with Runge's man. We got along fine and more than pleased Holt, for when we were through Holt found himself to the "good" several hundred dollars above contract price he paid, and the amount of my classing. On our way home Holt stopped at a hotel in Yorktown. In this hotel I saw a sign that I shall never forget. It read:


Holt had no baggage and had to dig up the cash. He was considered a good-hearted man, but when drinking would not stand for any foolishness. He was known as a good fighter and soldier from his Civil War record. I recall one time at Burton, Texas, when Holt and Dr. Watt met, disagreed, and both pulled their "smokewagons" and got busy. When the smoke cleared away both men were found wounded, Dr. Watt going to Knittel's store and Holt into Hons & Bauer's establishment. Holt was wounded in the hip, the bullet lodging in the backbone. Dr. Hons, his brother-in-law, who now lives in San Marcos, probed for the bullet while I was holding Holt's leg. I could feel the forceps slipping off the leaden missile as the doctor was trying to extract it. Dr. Hons failed to remove the ball and advised Holt that it would take an operation and which would be a dangerous


one. Holt sent to San Antonio for Dr. Cupples, who had been a surgeon in the army with Holt. Dr. Cupples and Dr. Hons performed the operation and Holt got well. He lived about two years when he and Joe Hoffman, also of Burton, were waylaid and shot in a saloon in Brenham.

Dr. Hons treated me during my illness with meningitis about 33 years ago. At the same time he was also attending Charles Hohmeyer's three children, who were suffering from the same malady. We all got well but I, minus one eye. There were at the time 56 cases of meningitis in Burton and Brenham, of which 44 did not recover.

I considered myself very fortunate in securing the services of my friend, Dr. Hons, and know he is one of the finest physicians in the State of Texas.

In 1884 Sam Hale and I put up for Curtis & Cochran of California 800 head of cattle. We bought these up in Washington, Lee, Burleson and Austin Counties. Curtis & Cochran bought some 600 head more from their kins-people and others near Bellville, and gathered them at Buckhorn, Austin County. My oldest brother, J. M. Craig, was employed by Curtis & Cochran to boss the herd through to New Mexico. He moved their 600 head from Buckhorn to Burton, where Hale and I joined him with the 800 head, making a herd of 1,400 cattle. This was entirely too large a herd to handle in the woods and among the farms.

The first day we only moved the herd some seven miles and camped at Charlie Tarno 's, in Sandtown, within 300 yards of where I was born. Old man Tarno had a field of about ten acres fenced with post oak rails. Into this field we turned our herd. Cochran had made the arrangement and knew nothing about cattle. He said: "Put them in there and give the boys a good night's rest." We had some sixty miles of the worst kind of brush ahead of us before we would get to the


Taylor Prairie. I warned my brother and Cochran that the herd would break the fence and scatter in all the directions of the globe ; and I, for one, would sleep with my bridle in hand. Hale and my brother followed my suggestion. Curtis & Cochran had hired every man that came to the herd, having some 14 hands, besides a cook. The firm had all their money in this herd and were down here in Texas where they did not have confidence in Texas people. They were so "darned" crooked themselves that they thought everybody was trying to beat them, so they hired all these men to be sure of their cattle, and to hold the herd. Hale, my brother and I had our horses saddled and ready. We took up our stations around the herd, one in a place. About ten o'clock that night the expected happened— the cattle stampeded. My brother was ahead of me, but could not make the lead; so he called to me: "Go Go to the lead of the herd and hold them up." I made the lead and on my way I passed Arthur Jones, who was in the middle of the herd, whipping for dear life to get out of the way, and caused the cattle in front to run so much faster. I did not see Jones any more that night. Later I located Sam Hale by his voice. The herd split up on us; my brother being with one part, and Sam Hale and I held the other part. At daybreak we drove our cattle towards the balance of the herd. We had the cattle counted before a single man from camp showed up— three of us holding 1,400 head of cattle in a herd through a dark night.

The cook told us that Curtis & Cochran had talked and wailed all night about their fortune being scattered iii those woods, and that they would never get them back. Old man Cochran came to us in the morning, accosting my brother : "Well, John, how many of the 'band' (meaning the herd) are gone?" My brother said : "Here is the count." He handed him the envelope on which we had jotted down the numbers as we cut the cattle by in small bunches and had counted them. The figures proved


we were none short. Cochran was a happy "old Yank," and declared: "You boys must have eyes like an owl, to run through these woods at night and not get killed."

With the delivery of these cattle to Curtis & Cochran my contract expired. The next day at noon I left for home. My brother carried the herd on through to New Mexico, somewhere near Las Vegas, and told me later that he had undergone many hardships. In crossing the Plains he had been without water for the cattle, at one time, for two days and nights. After all the hard and faithful work, these two old Yanks tried to beat my brother out of half of his wages. They hired him at $100.00 per month and paid him $50.00. Curtis & Cochran had lost a few cattle at Bellville while herding them and authorized me to gather and dispose of them and send them the money. I gathered these cattle, sold them, paid my brother his balance, and have never heard from them since.

One night while we were putting up cattle for the Curtis & Cochran herd we had some 150 head in my pen at Burton. After turning in for the night my brother took his money and some money that Joe, my wife, had given him for safekeeping, together with his six-shooter, stuck them under his pillow and turned in. He was sleeping on the front gallery. All of a sudden I heard a noise and found something had frightened the cattle, and they had broken fence and stampeded. They ran south, through the town of Burton. We were after them in no time and overtook them on Whitener's Prairie, rounded them together and finally succeeded in quieting them. Now, it happened that my brother began to get restless and confided to me that he came away and had left all his and my wife's money under his pillow on the front gallery. He figured that possibly my wife might have thought of it after our departure and had taken care of it, but "seeing is believing," and he was ill at ease. He rode back to assure himself while I held the


herd. Luckily he found the money and six-shooter in possession of my wife, and, to say the least, he felt much relieved. There were but few banks in the country, and we were in the habit of carrying the cash with us. The German people, as a rule, would not take anybody's check, and quite often demanded payment in silver, as they did not like paper money.

Whenever I had too much money I would turn it over to my wife. This was not a "force of habit," but quite convenient. My wife would put it in what she termed the "First National Bank"— her stocking. You know that is a woman's money purse.

In 1893 Dr. Hons of San Marcos and I were buying up 1,000 head of one and two-year-old steers on contract. We sold them to H. C. Beal for Louis Runge of Menardville. We had leased the McCoy pasture, near Wetmore, on the Cibolo Creek, to hold these steers until we had the required number. We were to deliver these cattle to them at the Las Moras ranch, on Elm Creek, near Menard.

This was really the hardest trip that I ever made with cattle. The cattle ran the first four nights that we were out and gave us no end of trouble.

The first night we herded in a wide lane or pocket, some three miles this side of the Guadalupe River on the Blanco city road. The cattle stampeded. Sam Craig, Billy and Ed Eckert were holding the north end of the pocket, towards the river, while Stock Wesson, I and the other hands held to the south end. The cattle headed for the river and went onto the boys with such force that they were unable to hold them. Sam Craig was riding a little black pony named "Nigger Babe," a sure-footed and fast animal. Sam went into the lane with the cattle, taking all kinds of chances. He worked his way towards the lead, but before they got to the river he crowded them into the fence, which broke and got into a pasture. Sam was with them. He turned their lead and brought


them all back to the herd. I considered Sam the best hand I ever had, day or night work, with cattle. Next morning's count showed that we had not lost any of the herd. On this trip I also had my boy, Walter A. Craig, then 8 years old, with me. He had his own horse, leggings and spurs, and made a splendid little hand in daytime. I caught him asleep but once. He was on his horse


under a tree and two other grown men were down on the ground sound asleep. He was too young to do any night herding.

The second night we held the cattle in another pocket or wide lane, near Krueger's store. The fences were good on either side, just two lanes to hold, but that night we had a rainstorm. I took Walter, my boy, on my horse behind me and brought him to Krueger's store. Sam


Craig and Stock Wesson held the south end of the lane. They had orders to force the cattle through the fence in case of a stampede, rather than let them go back the way they had come. The other boys, Billy and Ed Eckert, held the north end of the lane. The storm came from the north and the cattle ran south, throwing them on Craig and Wesson. They fought them with their slickers for dear life until they succeeded in turning their lead. Into the six or eight-wire fence they went. They broke through, cutting up a number of them badly, and we were obliged to kill several of them. They made another run, going north ; broke through the line, and scattered all over the mountains near Blanco City. We worked for three days gathering these cattle, and Cavaness Brothers and others rendered us great assistance.

The third night we moved in above Blanco and had pretty "bed grounds." The cattle made one little run, but we did not lose any in the stampede. However, some of the boys were careless and let quite a number drift out of the herd during the night and we gathered all next day to get them back.

The fourth day we moved into an ideal "bed ground," an open prairie with mountains all around. The boys had good grounds to run on. I gave Sam Craig and Stock Wesson each two horses and told them to run the cattle down if they could do no better ; also, to take their slickers and run the herd in a circle all night or hold them. I put Walter, my boy, and my little nigger boy, Bill, on the chuck box in back of the wagon, and told them to .stay there till the cattle quieted down. These boys said that the cattle ran twenty-two times that night. The next morning we tried to stampede the herd with our slickers, but they refused to be stampeded. They never made another run on us. We had no more trouble of this nature, but we were quite a few short on account of so many stampedes. H. C. Beal having passed on these cattle, stayed by his classing and did, not cut us


any cattle on. account of wire cuts. This was an exceptional trip and I was very foolish in taking my child along at his age. The trip kept him away from his mother for two months. We returned in the chuck wagon and on the way gathered what cattle we had lost and could find.

In 1914 one day I was en route from Brenham to Ledbetter with my two favorite ponies, Johnny and Charlie. I was riding Johnny and leading Charlie. Some two and a half miles north of Carmine, on the Houston and Texas Central Railroad, I met Crawford Gillespie. He was section foreman, Section 7, and was trying to push one of those motor cars down the track to where his men were at work. In some unaccountable way the motor started and the car got away from Gillespie. It went through his bunch of men, who tried to board it, but failed. He called to me to ditch it by throwing a tie across the track. The track was fenced, and I had no chance. In fact, I did not hardly have any time to "hesitate." It was all my horse could do to outrun the car, and I saw my only chance was to beat the car to Carmine and rope it. There was no way of getting close to the track on account of it being fenced. I got to Carmine in time enough to jump off my horse and throw a nearlying plank across the track, and ditched it directly in front of the depot. It was a test of horse flesh against gasoline, in which the horse won out. This little pony is now playing polo in New York.

In the early days there were in Washington County as well as in many other counties of Texas, some pretty tough people. Horse and cattle thieves were quite plentiful. The officers, knowing that my oldest brother and I were handy on horseback and ready at day or in the night to uphold law and order, would call on us to assist in running down this element. We kept this duty up more or less all of our lives, and neither of us ever held an office higher than a deputy sheriff or constable. The


fact is, the court house ring were playing "safety first," and knew that some of their crooked bunch would get locked up if occasion warranted.

In those days we could not prohibit horse stealing, but nowadays you seldom hear of it in this country. The horse thieves were very bad and bold, and something had to be done. You might, for instance, go to bed at night leaving your work team in the barn or lot and awake next morning to find your team had disappeared. Every possible means were resorted to to stamp out this evil, but of no avail. Finally they experimented with "hemp" for several years. A strong dose of hemp would always tend to kind of "deaden" the desire to steal and today there is very little of it going on.

With reference to the old-time cowmen with whom I have spent all of my life, I candidly believe them to be the best people on earth today. They do not all profess to be Christians, but they are a noble and big-hearted set of men that you can rely upon when you, or your country, gets into trouble. They will divide their last dollar with you, and fight their weight in wildcats for you, their friends and their country. They are always ready to help the poor and needy. Only the other day at one of the local commission offices, a boy who had come from Arkansas with cattle told us of lending his last ten dollars to a gambler and losing it. He had a "pass" back home, but nothing to pay for meals or lodging. The boys chipped in and made up enough money for him on his way home. As he was walking out of the office, John Draper asked me to call him back, and handed him a tendollar bill. This is the kind of material the stockmen in general are made of, and may the good Lord favor every one of them.

Now, in conclusion, will say that my family consists of my wife and two children. The oldest child, a girl, named Willie Belle, is living in Houston, Texas, and is the wife of Judge Ewing Boyd, judge of the 35th District,


Harris County. The youngest child, a boy, Walter A., after finishing his education in Waco, worked for different banks in Fort Worth and later for Swift and Company, where he figured the value of cattle from the "scales to the vat." He also wanted more elbow room and the open air, so he engaged in the live-stock business. He dealt exclusively in Mexican cattle and had ranching interests in Mexico, but on account of the revolution, he transferred his activities to this side of the river, and is located at Laredo, Texas. He is actively engaged in the live-stock trade and considered a fine judge of stock.

As for myself, I am hale and hardy at my age, which I attribute to my life in the open air and being used to work.

May we all meet at the final roll call and accompany the chuck wagon to the last and great Roundup. Beware, if you are a "sleeper!"

Of Kerrville, Texas

One of the most prominent figures in the development of the cattle industry in West and Southwest Texas is Captain Charles Schreiner, who is :still living at Kerrville, where for so many years he was actively engaged in business, but is now spending his declining years amid the pleasant surroundings that his wonderful zeal and enterprising spirit has made possible.

Captain Schreiner was born in Alsace-Lorraine, France, February 22, 1838, and came to San Antonio, Texas, in September, 1852. At that time San Antonio was little more than a village, and the surrounding country a wilderness infested with wild beasts and wild men. Captain Schreiner foresaw wonderful opportunities for the man with grit and determination and, although he


CAPTAIN CHARLES SCHREINER Banker, Merchant, Stockman and


was but a lad in his teens, he started out with a determination to carve out a career for himself that would place him in the ranks of the prominent financiers and business men of the state. In 1859 he entered the stock business on Turtle Creek, Kerr County, in a small way, gradually building his herds, acquiring land holdings, and thus expanding his interests as the years passed. Ten years later, in 1869, he engaged in the banking and general mercantile business at Kerrville, which business has continued to this good time, and is one of the solid institutions of West Texas.

In the establishment of a bank and store at Kerrville at that early date, Captain Schreiner placed himself in a position to assist the pioneers of that section, and thus help in the development of that favored region. He was heartily in accord with any project that was for the good of the community he had chosen for his field of operations, and with the keenest of business ability he permitted no opportunity to slip that would aid in its development. The result was that in the course of time he became identified with several industrial projects, chiefly cattle and sheep raising, was also engaged in the mercantile and banking business at Junction City and Rock Springs and was connected with banks and mercantile concerns in San Antonio, as well as possessing stock in several railroad companies, gradually building a fortune that made him several times a millionaire. Despite the burden of years, Captain Schreiner gave active attention to his banking, mercantile and live-stock interests until 1918, when he transferred the bulk of his property to his children.

At the age of sixteen years Captain Schreiner entered the Ranger Service, serving in Captain Henry's, Captain Sansom's and Captain McFadden's companies during 1854 to 1859. When the Civil War broke out he enlisted in the Confederate Army and served for four years.

For many years Captain Schreiner and Captain John


T. Lytle were in partnership in the cattle business and the firm drove more than one hundred and fifty thousand cattle up the trail to Northern markets.

Today the name of Charles Schreiner is linked with the making of West Texas, for he has been the moving, building spirit that has made many things possible for that region. The town of Kerrville stands as a monument to his genius, and the substantial business and public buildings and pretty homes in that thriving metropolis lend evidence to the fact that "he builded better than he knew."


By A. W. Capt, San Antonio, Texas

My mind wanders back to the good old days of yore ; back to the halcyon days of the early cattle roundups


and drives up the "Chisholm Trail," when cow ponies were sure-footed sure enough. Cow ponies and "cowboys" were sure-to — goodness cowboys. The later term applied to them, "cow punchers," was not yet coined nor applicable, for usually the exercise was more of a race horse performance to round 'em up and hold them up before they struck the breaks.

My cowboy experience dates back to the early sixties in Blanco, Kendall and Gillespie Counties, the then frontier of Texas. During the Civil War, when the men and boys were nearly all in


the army, cattle on the range plentiful and very wild, it was mine to ride the range alone, everybody's "roustabout," to gather their scattered cattle, brand their calves and hunt their lost horses. In those days of open range and free grass, it was a custom practiced by the people to round up such cows as were easily penned, regardless of ownership in most cases, and milk them during the spring, summer and fall, branding the calves in the cow's brand. Concerning this bit of exercise, I became very proficient and much needed, for when early grass began to rise and young calves began to bawl in the spring I was called into service from "Dan to Beersheba" by war widows and other folks where there was no one on the ranch that wore a pair of pants to ride the range and run in old "Sooky" and any other cows with calves that could be penned.

Beginning in the spring of 1870, when large herds were being driven from Texas up the Chisholm Trail to Kansas and beyond, I got my best experience, joining the "roundup" for Sam and Thomas Johnson, the then largest individual trail drivers operating in Blanco, Gillespie, Llano, Burnett, Hays, Comal and Kendall Counties, with headquarter pens and branding stall at the mouth of Williamson's Creek in Blanco County and headquarters at Johnson's ranch on the Perdenales River, Johnson City, the county site of Blanco County. The roundup or range hands and range boss usually gathered, road branded and delivered a herd of from 2,500 to 3,000 head of cattle, which a trail boss and his outfit received at headquarters ranch, but sometimes we delivered them at the Seven Live Oaks on the prairie west of Austin. After a good night's rest the ranch hands, bidding their relief "So So long, we'll meet you later in Kansas," with pack and ponies, hit the back trails for another herd for the next outfit.

Usually the ranch hands and ranch boss covered the retreat with the last herd in the late summer. This being


the case in the summer of 1871, when we started from the branding pens on Williamson Creek, tired and worn, the boss bolstered up with a pillow in his .saddle, having come in contact with the business end of a black steer at the branding pen, was almost out of commission. We had a herd of 3,000 head, made up mostly of beeves of the old mossback, stampeding, bushwhacking type. The outfit consisted of the cook, the only man in the outfit that everybody could cuss, chuck wagon drawn by two yoke of oxen, horse wrangler and sixty-four rode-down mounts and sixteen typical cowboys, Dick Johnson, boss ; Col. Nat Lewis, second boss ; Tom Moore (Banker Tom) of Llano ; Tom Logan, Bill Hitchbreath, Bob Collins, Guss Butterfield, James Smith, Pete Lindweber, Henry Lindweber Sr., Thomas Colbath, Hilliary Colbath, Fritz Hitchfelt, Kansas Miller, Arnold Capt and Josh Nicholson, the cook. And today, as I pen this sketch, I feel alone and lonely, for most of these comrades and many other cowboy associates of that day have passed over the river except H. C. Aten, a friend beloved and true. No better cowboy ever graced or disgraced the hurricane deck of a Spanish pony, and if he did usually hang his long carcass on the left side of his mount with his hind leg in his flank and roped with his left paw, he was always "Charley at the wheel," never found wanting, but on the spot ready to deliver the goods.

On the trail that year water was scarce, herds plentiful and dust more so. The first few days nothing occurred to break the monotony or hush the humdrum of the cowboys' ragtime music, until we were crossing the Colorado River below Austin. Had a stampede there early in the morning and after a hard day's work we put the last bovine over just before sunset. The chuck wagon, having been sent across the bridge into Austin for supplies with instructions to camp on the trail north of the city, eating was all out until 3 P.M. next day. It's a good appetizer; try it. I am recording another


stampede that is written indelibly on memory's page —a stampede of men. It occurred one dreadful hot July day when the sun was at full tide and the wind refused to blow. It is said men are like monkeys— imitative creatures. One of the boys dropped back to the wagon and disrobed down to undershirt and drawers. He looked so cool that all tried the experiment, some leaving everything in the wagon but undershirt and government drawers. It was on the prairie near the head of Elm and happened to be Sunday, as we were reminded when we were met by a whole camp meeting crowd of young ladies and their beaux on horseback. The boss and the wagon had gone on ahead and the boys wished they could also vanish. The boss, who would rather have fun and go to hell in a go-cart than miss it and go to Heaven in a chariot, had instructed the young folks to pass by the herd on both sides, and they did so, hence the stampede. Some of the boys went off at a tangent east to see how the range looked, others went west in search of water to fill their canteens, a few thoughtfuls dropped to the rear to push up the drags, while others held their ground trying to hide their embarrassment by trying to put the words "I I would not live alway, I ask not to stay," to music.

After crossing Red River at Red River Station and entering the Indian Nation, now Oklahoma, the things of interest or disinterest that accompanied the drive were many stampedes, sleepless nights, gyp water and poor chuck, constituted our bill of fare. Occasionally some of the boys would ride into camp weary, with a bad liver, venting their spleen on the patient cook, but as he was no hog and knew when he had enough, old Betsy (his 44 Colts), which he kept in the chuck wagon as a liver regulator, was sometimes resorted to, usually bringing order out of chaos. Buffalo, antelope and Indians were much in evidence, and an occasional buffalo was shot. Chasing them afforded great sport, but as for chasing


Indians, that was out of the question, for at that time they were under the watchful care of government agents and, as Uncle Sam was trying to tame his Indians, we quietly passed them by.

On August 1st Bluff Creek was crossed and the herd thrown off the trail to graze on the plains of Kansas. After a few more days of hard driving we stopped on Turkey Creek, a few miles south of Abilene. Some of the hands bought wagons and returned to Texas via Arkansas, where they loaded apples. Others remained with the herd, removing it later up the Platte River to winter quarters. T. J. Moore and I cut out our small interest in the Johnson herd and moved on, he going up the Solomon River and I establishing winter quarters on the Smoky Hill River above Abilene, where I wintered and suffered. Thawing out in the spring, I hit the grit for Sunny Texas, a poorer but wiser man. In closing this sketch I wish to bear joyous testimony to the fact that in all my associations with men of various vocations, I have found no friends more noble, true and generous to the limit than the cowmen of yesterday and today. Some are especially blessed with this world's goods, dear companions and many true friends, yet without the companionship of Jesus, the truest friend; the desolate winds of sorrow and loneliness will sweep over your soul and for this reason, now and then, despite all the happy experiences that may come to you through the companionship of earthly friends, there will sometimes be indescribable longing in your soul that earthly friends cannot satisfy. You need the companionship of Christ.

It is my joy in life to find
At every turn of the road,
The strong arm of comrades kind
To help me on with my load.


And since I have no gold to give,
And love alone must make amends,
My only prayer is while I live,
God make me worthy of my friends."


By Col. Ike T. Pryor of San Antonio

Trail driving of cattle from Texas to Northwestern States in the old trail days was reduced to almost a science, and large numbers of cattle were moved at the minimum cost.

To illustrate, I drove fifteen herds in 1884 from South Texas to the Northwestern States. It required a minimum of 165 men and about 1,000 saddle horses to move this entire drive. In other words, these cattle were driven in droves of 3,000 to each herd, with eleven men, including the boss, and each man was furnished with six horses.

The salaries of these eleven men, including the boss, were $30.00 each for the ten men, including the cook, and $100.00 a month for the boss. This gave an outlay of $400.00 a month, and estimating $100.00 for provisions, there was an expense of $500.00 a month to move a herd of 3,000 cattle 450 to 500 miles. Briefly speaking, in those days it was possible to drive 3,000 cattle 3,000 miles for $3,000.00, or, in other words, from South Texas to Montana a herd could be driven of 3,000 head for not to exceed $3,000.00. My average expense on the fifteen herds in 1884 was about $500.00 per month. The average distance traveled by these herds was from 450 to 500 miles per month, and when I had sold and delivered all of these cattle to Montana, Dakota and Wyoming ranchmen I had lost 1,500 head, or 3 per cent.

Today it would cost $25,000 or $30,000 to move 3,000 steers from Southern Texas to Montana, and the only


way they could be moved would be by rail. And I daresay the loss would be equal to 3 per cent.

The old trail drivers had a margin of from $3.00 to $4.00 a head between Texas and the Northwest. In 1884 I paid $12.00 for my yearlings, $16.00 for my two-year- olds and $20.00 for my three-year-olds, and I had them contracted to the ranchmen of the Northwest at $4.00 a head margin ; 1884 was the last heavy drive made, and in the fall of that year cattle started down and continually went down each year for nine years. In other words, stock cattle in Texas was selling at $25.00 a head in 1884 and went as low as $6.00 a head in 1893. Good Panhandle cattle were selling in 1893 for $10.00 per head and South Texas cattle were selling at about $6.00 per head. As proof of this fact, I bought the Cross S cattle, about 10,000 head, at $6.30 per head, no calves counted, a guarantee of 2,500 three and four-year-old steers out of a possible number of 10,000 head. These cattle were loaded on board the cars for me at Uvalde and Spofford at this price.

I remember one trip I made with a herd when not a man had a watch or a compass. At night when we would stop the tongue of the wagon was pointed toward the north star and the next morning when we made our start we would take the direction indicated by the wagon tongue. We maintained four guards of three hours each during each night, and although we had no timepiece, it is a fact that each man stood guard fifteen or twenty minutes over his time, and the last guard for the night had the short watch. This shows the generous disposition of those old trail boys, in that they would not throw off on their comrades.


By John S. Kritzer, Taylor, Texas

I am not a member of the Old Trail Drivers' Association, having never put in my application for memberssip,


but being in a reminiscent mood, I thought I would write a short .sketch of what I saw and know of trail life, and to do so I will have to go back with Father Time to my earlier days.

I was born in Independence, Mo., in 1842, and raised on a farm a little while, and in Joe Shelby's Missouri Cavalry Brigade the balance of the time from 1861 to 1865. When General Robert E. Lee surrendered, General Shelby and about three hundred of us boys concluded to take a ride across the Rio Grande and help Emperor Maximilian clean up Cortina, Juarez, Diaz, and a few other brigands. We started from Corsicana, Texas, all young daredevils as ever fired a shot at the Yankees in defense of our beloved Southland, and as good marksmen with pistol or rifle as ever rode in any cavalry brigade of any country on earth. We knew the savas could not do anything toward licking us. We rode down to San Antonio, turned west and went through Uvalde and crossed the Rio Grande at Eagle Pass. At Piedras Negras we had a fight with the Mexicans, in which only fourteen of our boys were involved, but we killed fourteen Mexicans who wanted to take our horses. At Uvalde we had traded some of our American horses, which had given out, for some horses that had Spanish brands, and these Greasers thought they would dismount us. Not a man in our crowd could speak Spanish, but how we could handle our gun ! They had our horses by the bridle reins and were pointing to the brands on them, while we were laughing at them, for we knew they were flirting with the graveyard. General Shelby saw that something was going wrong and came to us and asked what was the matter. We told him that from the signs they were making those devils wanted our horses. He said, "Hold your horses, and kill Mexicans." When he said that, every man pulled his gun and shot them loose from our bridles.

There was a regiment of over a thousand Mexican


soldiers in Piedras Negras, and they began to shoot from the tops of the adobe houses, so we got in line, and as their guns would not shoot more than one hundred yards, while we were shooting Sharps rifles, which would kill a man a thousand yards away. The Mexican colonel, under protection of a white flag as large as a wagon sheet, and accompanied by his staff, came out to where we had our battle line, and told General Shelby that he was the "bravest American and had the bravest men" that ever crossed the Rio Grande, and that if his people bothered our men or our horses he would have them shot. General Shelby replied through the interpreter that he had issued the same orders to us and he could find proof of that fact down the river where he had killed a few of his d —d horse thieves. After thanking the colonel very kindly for the compliment paid him and to his men, General Shelby marched us from Piedras Negras to Monterey, and we fought bandits and revolutionists all the way, killing more than twice the number of our force. Of course we lost some men, too, but whenever we ran on to the enemy they belonged to us. From Monterey, where we met the Maximilian French soldiers, and our friends who had gone there previously, we secured passports to Mexico City, where, when we arrived, Emperor Maximilian gave us land near Cordoba to start a colony. But Maximilian had to leave Mexico City and escape to Queretaro, where he was betrayed, captured and executed with two of his generals. So we abandoned the colony and returned to Missouri. After returning home I went to Wyoming and Montana and freighted for Uncle Sam.

Leaving Salt Lake City for Kansas City in the spring of 1869, I .decided to come to Texas, so I came down through the Indian Territory to Llano, where I bought 1,000 steers, fours and up. Three-year-olds were not counted beeves in those days. I drove these steers to Fort Sill and sold them to an Indian contractor for the


government and in the fall drove to Baxter Springs, where I made the acquaintance of Doc Day, Isom Goode and other old cowmen.

In 1871 I drove 400 yoke of work oxen to Fort Harker, in the Smoky Hills, near Ellsworth, Kansas, and was captured by the Osage Indians after I crossed the Cimarron River with my horses. They held me prisoner for about an hour, and I suppose I would have been scalped, but the Indians saw the dust of a big herd being driven by Jim Scobey and turned me loose. Each warrior had one side of his face painted red and the other side painted black. I saw the dust kicked up by that herd and called the Indians' attention to it, and they immediately left me.

The next year or two I drove to Abilene, Kansas, on the Smoky River. Bill Hickok was city marshal there, and was a desperate character. I then drove to Dodge City, taking one herd of the old Jingle Bob steers, which I had bought from Coggin Brothers and J. M. Dawson, from the Plains to Gainesville. These were the old John Chissum steers from Seven Rivers, near Roswell, New Mexico, and the most of them died with tick fever. Before I reached Chicago I lost $21,000 on them and was busted.

Major L. G. Cairness staked me in 1882, when he contracted 10,000 steers from Dan Wagoner. I received only 6,000 and drove them to Honeywell, Kansas, in four herds, which took all summer, as it was -such a short drive. We made $72,000 on this drive, lost only three steers and saw lightning kill them. This was my last trail work.

I would be delighted to meet some of the old drovers again. God bless them. But lots of them have laid down their saddles, spurs and hobbles, coiled the riata and crossed the River Styx, and are resting in the shade of the trees.

Now, in conclusion, if you think this epistle of John


to the cow punchers of the old Chisholm Trail is of any consequence in the way of reminiscence, or will cast any lustre on the fame of those brave and daring men of the saddle and trail, put it in your book. If not, cast it aside, but still in friendship remember the giver, an old plainsman who has helped to skin 'em, fought Yankees, Mexicans, wild Indians and cow thieves. Farewell until we rattle our hocks on the other side.

1015 West Agarita Avenue, San Antonio, Texas

Mose W. Hays was a foremost cattleman and business man of the Northeastern Panhandle country, and was one of the oldest residents in that part of the state.

During the quarter of a century in which he has


known the Panhandle all the agricultural development and industrial changes have taken place there, for through all the ages during which Northwest Texas had been a portion of the new world continent its resources and its landscape features had never experienced such development and mutation as they have during the short time of white men's occupation and exploitation of this region. Mr. Hays has accordingly witnessed all the important history of that section of the state, and is one of the few men whose lot has been permanently cast with the Panhandle since 1877.


Born in Warren County, Kentucky, Mr. Hays at the age of two years was taken by his parents, N. M. and Sarah (Phillips) Hays, both native Kentuckians, to Jackson County, Missouri, about twenty-five miles east of Kansas City, and later the family became pioneer settlers of Colorado, in which state the parents spent the remainder of their lives. Mr. Hays became identified with the cattle industry in boyhood and it has formed his principal and most profitable pursuit throughout his active career. In 1871 he left the family home in Colorado and went West, spending five years in Nevada and California, during most of which time he was a cowboy.

From the Pacific slope he came east to Texas. With his brotherin-law, Joe Morgan, he drove a bunch of Mexican cattle from Corpus Christi, Texas, to the open range in the Panhandle country. This was in 1877, and he has lived in that part of the state ever since until the past five years, when he took up his residence in San Antonio, having retired from active business. It makes him one of the old-timers, as there are only a few now living there who were in the Panhandle as early as that. Up to 1902 his ranching operations were carried on mostly in Hemphill County, where for a number of years he had the noted old Springer ranch. His last ranch was located in the southeastern part of Lipscomb County, where he owned about thirty-five hundred acres of land, his residence and ranch headquarters being three miles south of Higgins. His ranch was known for its typical western hospitality as well as for progressive and enterprising methods of operating, which were everywhere in evidence. Mr. Hays has been uniformly successful in the cattle business and has attained a most satisfactory degree of prosperity. He was one of the three owners comprising the Higgins Hardware Company, which conducted the leading hardware store in Lipscomb County.

In numerous other affairs of public and business nature he has exerted his influence, and he is a man of


recognized ability and integrity in whatever he undertakes.

Mr. Hays was married early in life to Miss Lou Turner of Mills County, Iowa, and has one child, Mrs. L. C. Kelley of Wichita, Kansas, who, as Bonnie Hays, attended the Mulholland School in San Antonio. In April, 1912, Mr. Hays married Miss Bessie Long of San Antonio (formerly of Owensboro, Kentucky) and for the past four years they have lived in their home in Agarita Avenue, Beacon Hill, building one of the first modern bungalows on that street.


By J. W. Jackson, Bartlett, Texas

My father and mother, Jacob and Jane Jackson, moved to Texas and settled on Donahoe Creek, in Bell


County, in September, 1851, when I was nine years old. I have two brothers younger than myself who were cowmen, G. W. Jackson of Cleo, Oklahoma, and J. D. Jackson of Alpine, Texas.

When I was a lad I chased rabbits and lizards, trapped birds, fought the old ganders, rode the calves in the milk pen, and went to the country school when I could not find an excuse to stay at home. When the Civil War came on and took all of the able-bodied men, they left their cattle and horses almost at the mercy of the world, so the old men and boys tried to take care of the stock that was left.


That was when my hard work first began, for I was expected to do the work of a man.

My first long drive up the trail was in 1872, when we trailed 2,290 head of cattle from Tom Lane's old ranch in Milam County, to Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory. The old trail drivers who were out that year can tell what heavy and constant rains we had all through the spring and summer. We had to swim all the rivers and creeks, but I think we had the best herd to cross water that was ever driven up the trail. In our herd we had some three hundred old longhorn steers, from ten to fifteen years old, which had been raised in Little River and Brushy bottoms during the Civil War, and when we gathered them they were almost as wild as deer. There was a big bunch of these old steers that worked in the lead of the herd, and when we came to a river or creek that was swollen these old steers would walk right into the muddy water and pull for the other side, the balance of the herd following.

We had one little scrap with the Indians, but no one was hurt. They killed one steer during the fight.

We crossed Smoky Hill River just a short distance above the little town of Ellsworth, Kansas. The village was on the north side of the river then, and when we arrived there the river had been swollen by the heavy rains and looked to be a mile wide and was very swift. We had to wait until it ran down within its banks before we could cross. We secured a small boat to take us across and had to make two trips to get our stuff over.

We went from Ellsworth to Fort Kearney, Nebraska, and struck the Platte River, traveling up this stream on the south side for nearly four hundred miles, grazing the herd as we went. The Platte River stretched across the country like a ribbon in the sunshine. In some places it was a mile and a quarter wide, and a fertile green valley reached back to the hills on either side, no shrubbery being visible anywhere except a few big cottonwood


trees. We found game here in abundance, deer, antelope and buffalo, and I roped two buffalo on that trip, as well as killing several.

We delivered the cattle near Cheyenne, Wyoming, and I took the saddle horses and chuck wagon and started back home over the same trail, reaching Bell County just before Christmas, 1872. This ended my first long drive.


By E. L. Brounson, Sample, Texas

I was born September 14th, 1868, and have spent most of my life in the cattle business. My father was wounded in the Civil War and became an invalid, so when I was twelve years old I went to work on the range to help support our family. I helped to clean the first pasture that was fenced in our part of the country. This pasture belonged to Bob Bennett and was rented by J. D. Houston, now deceased.

We moved to Cuero in 1875, at the time when the Taylor-Sutton feud was in full sway.

In 1883 I went to Golfed County with a thousand head of cattle belonging to old man George Lord. There had been a prolonged drouth in the upper country, and we heard that there was a stretch of country comprising over fifty thousand acres in Goliad County where the range was open on Turkey Creek, so we drove these cattle there. We were the first to reach there and found grass good and water plentiful, but in a short time other cattle were moved in and by the first of November there were fully 20,000 cattle brought there to winter. It proved a hard winter, for the range was eaten off and water got so scarce the cattle died by hundreds. There is where I first met Green Davidson, who was there


looking after cattle. You may not believe it now, but I skinned cattle by his side all winter, and will say he could take the hide off a cow just as quick as any man you ever saw. I also met G. A. Ray there. He and his father put 700 two-year-old heifers on that range and got back 240. In the spring of 1884 I hired to Mr. Ray for $12 per month and went home with him, where I broke horses, dug post holes and worked cattle until the spring of 1885, when I went out to Alpine and on to the Rio Grande. Here we were provided with mounts, eight horses for day work and one gentle horse for night riding. These day mounts were half-broke ponies and had been out on the range about a year. We were given thirty-six shoes to put on the nine horses and told to shoe them. I had never shod a horse in my life, but went at it and made a good job of it, for we used those horses right along and no one ever made complaint about our work. Our boss was Gid Guthrie, who died a few years ago at Alpine. We gathered our herd on the Rio Grande and drove it across the plains to Honeywell, Kansas.

In 1886 we drove a herd over the same trail for Lee Kokernot of Gonzales, with Gid Guthrie as boss. That same year we drove a herd belonging to George Miller of the 101 Ranch, then on the Arkansas River in the Indian Territory. When I got back home I had my wages in my pocket and I had two good horses, so began to buy a few cattle for myself. At that time the country was open from Cuero to Colorado, and by 1893 I had accumulated a herd of 500 or 600 head of cattle and moved them to Bee County, near Mineral City, where I rented the old Charlie Fox pasture, which I later disposed of with my cattle to Kenedy, Clair & Wood for $14 per head.

My first attempt to borrow money was at a bank in Cuero which had been in existence about a year. I wanted to borrow $300, which I needed to pay the lease on the. pasture I had rented, and the president of the bank made me put up 500 two-year-old steers as security.


I went broke in 1903 at Elgin, Kansas, and have been broke so many times since that I have no record of the number. Passed through the drouth of 1917 and rented a Johnson grass patch near San Antonio and let my cattle graze the suburbs of that city.


By John B. Conner, Yoakum, Texas

I was on the trail in 1885 with the —X outfit for Lytle & Stevens, who had six herds of 3,000 head each and one herd of 2,000 head, the last mentioned herd being bossed by Al Jones, a negro. My boss was a white man named J. G. Jones of Gonzales. Other bosses from Gonzales were Arthur Johnson, W. W. Peavey, Milton Fly and the well-known Mac Stewart was our pilot through the Panhandle. I could go into details and give some interesting accounts of the drives I was in, but will confine my sketch to some of the things of interest to me that I witnessed that year.

The first bad thunderstorm I was in occurred on the Salt Fork of Red River, when I was on night herd with the saddle horses. The lightning was continuous, so was the thunder, which was most terrific. While the storm was in progress the horses bunched together around me, stuck their heads between their knees and moaned and groaned till I became frightened and decided that the end of time had come. I was only nineteen years old, and thought I was as brave as any man, but the action of the horses was too much for me, so I got down off my horse and lay flat down on the ground and tried to die, but could not. The ,storm passed on and I found myself unhurt, so after that fearful experience I did not mind other storms.


Another thing that interested me was the catching of mustang horses in No Man's Land. One day I ran across a party of men in camp who were making the capturing of these mustangs a business. They had several head tethered nearby which they had just captured, and showed me a large bunch standing about a mile away which they informed me they had been running for several days. These men worked in relays, or reliefs, and kept the mustangs on the go, without permitting them to rest or get to watering places. In the seven days three colts died from exhaustion. The men told me they kept just in sight of them to keep them on the run all day, and finally ran them down. The captured horses I saw there were all beauties.

About sixty miles south of the Palo Duro River I saw the first dirt fence, which had been constructed to catch drifting cattle during blizzards. This fence ran east and west across the plains and served its purpose well, but occasioned heavy losses in some instances. As I journeyed on and when within about twenty miles of the Palo Duro, I began to see dead cattle every few hundred yards, and the nearer I approached to the river the carcasses seemed to increase until I reached the river, where there were literally hundreds of dead cattle scattered around over the prairie. I was told by the roundup men these cattle had drifted down to the dirt fence, where they almost perished for water, and when they came back to the river they drank so much water it killed them.

We had 3,000 head of the —X cattle in our herd and had to make a three days' drive without water to get to the river. There were also two more herds of 2,000 each of the JA brand, bossed by Fly and Doak, following us, making 7,000 head in all, and when we reached the Palo Duro River, where the old stage line from Dodge City to New Mexico crossed the stream, we found about twenty outfits of roundup ranch hands there with a lot of


gathered cattle. I thought sure we were going to have a general mixup that night, for I never saw so many cattle in my life before, but we kept separated by lots of hard work and constant riding. We did not drink the water ourselves, but dug shallow pits away from the river, let the water seep in and used that.

Sometimes the cowboys, when off herd, would have great sport chasing antelope, but could not catch them. There was a certain species of wolf in that region called a "swift," of a dark brown color, which we often tried to catch, but they were too swift for us. We often captured wild turkey gobblers which had strayed out from the rivers to the level prairie. When we jumped them they would fly a mile or two, then we would run them down.


By T. M. Turner, San Antonio, Texas

On August 9, 1869, I arrived at Goliad, from Louisiana. At Richmond I overtook Bryant Reynolds and Leander Butler, who were on their way to Goliad, and accepted their invitation to travel with them. I had come to Texas to be a cowboy. During the Civil War I had served as a scout in the Confederate Army, and had encountered some thrilling experiences while acting in that capacity, but I always wanted to be a cowboy, for it was a life that particularly appealed to me.

We traveled through the piney woods for two days, after which we came to the prairie, and here I encountered a young Englishman named Johnson, under a live oak tree unsaddling his horse. He had recently arrived from England and was on his way to— Rockport, but decided to accompany us. Johnson was a pretty green tenderfoot, like myself, and when he found a jackrabbit


he tried to catch him with a rope, thinking the rabbit was crippled because he ran off on three legs and had a bump on one side of his tail. The last time I saw that Englishman he was still running that rabbit. We arrived at Rance Taylor's ranch, and next day I was engaged by Mr. Taylor to build a corncrib. While at this work B. F. (Dock) Burris, a prominent stockman of Bee County, came there and wanted to know if there was a chap on the ranch who wanted work. Mr. Taylor told him he could probably employ me, so we made a trade. He was to start me at $12.50 per month and raise my wages as I made good. So I started my cowboy life August 18, 1869, on Goat Creek, Goliad County, Texas, and began rounding up on Pettus Prairie. When we threw the cattle together I thought we had all the cattle in Texas there, and would have nothing to do the following day. Dock Burris said to me, "Louisiana, you go over to those mesquite trees and hold them as we cut them out. If you need help I will send another hand to you." I did as I was told, and presently I heard Bryant Reynolds saying, "Here she is, Dock," and the reply, "All right, Bryant. Wait until I can get there, for all hell can't cut her out alone." They were talking about an old brindle cow, a typical Texas longhorn, with the bush of her tail cut off, including three inches of the bone. She was coming in my direction and Mr. Burris called to me, "Hold her up, Louisiana ; hold her up." I did my best to stop her, but she had her head set and turned down within a foot of the ground, determined to go right on. One of the boys called out, "Tail her, Louisiana; tail her," and when I caught her tail with both hands my horse went one way and Old Brindle and I went another. The boys yelled with glee and shouted to me to "stay with her." Indeed I stayed, until Dock got to me and said "turn her loose," at the same time getting in between me and that maddened old brindle cow. On our way to the branding pen Mr. Burris and I were working the tail


end of the cows and calves. He had a pretty little brown pony in the herd which he told me belonged to his son, Shannon, and said he did not permit the cowboys to ride it for fear they would hurt his back, but as I was not much larger than Shannon, he would let me use the pony. He staked the pony out that night so he would not be too full of grass to run after the cattle the next day. When we had everything arranged the next morning to make our start Mr. Burris caught the pony by the right ear and told Bryant to lay my saddle on him right easy. The little horse squatted right near the ground as the saddle girth was being slowly drawn tight, and when I mounted him, Mr. Burris let go of his ear and threw his hat under the pony's belly. Things became interesting about this time, and I turned the reins loose, for I had to use both hands to hold to the horn of the saddle. The boys yelled, "Stay with him, Louisiana," and I stayed until the reins became entangled in his front feet and from sheer exhaustion the little brown pony ceased pitching.

We branded about two hundred calves below the old mission at Goliad. It was my first experience in this line of work, but when I saw the boys grab the yearlings by the tail, jerk them down, run their tails between their hind legs and yell, "Come on with the branding iron," I thought it was time for me to do likewise, so I caught one of the yearlings by the tail and set back, when lo, she sent both hind feet into my stomach and I landed on my back, and then it was "twinkle, twinkle, little star— what in hell is the matter now?" This little motley-faced heifer must have been Old Brindle's calf.

I was sent to W. G. Butler's ranch in Karnes County and drove big-jawed and crippled beeves from there to Rockport, where they were killed for their hides and tallow and the meat fed to hogs.

In March, 1870, we started a herd of beeves to Abilene, Kansas. At Fort Worth, then a little cross-roads town, we met two shorthorn cowboys who were yelling


and shooting, and we came near having trouble with them, because they turned our cattle back. Mr. Butler and I told them in a very emphatic manner to strike a high ball to town, and they struck it, and the last we saw of them was a streak of Fort Worth dust. We had a fine time that year, as everything was in good condition and going smooth. In those days I thought I was a "sticker" with a bunch of cattle in sunshine, rain or storm, but Pleas Butler could work all of the Karnes County starch out of any other man in Texas. No man ever drove a bunch of cattle up the trail any better than Pleas Butler.


By N. L. Word, Alice, Texas

I was born in Noonan, Georgia, June 6, 1846, and came to Texas when but a boy. Made my first trip up


the trail in 1871 with my brother, Charlie, who had 500 big steers, which we placed in a herd of 500 more belonging to Emmet Rutledge and John Scott, which made a herd of 1,000, and we started from Gonzales, drove them to Abilene, Kansas, and sold the steers belonging to Rutledge and Scott, while brother Charlie drove our steers on to Omaha, Neb.

My next trip was with 1,200 head of horses belonging to D. R. Fant and myself. This was the first large bunch of horses driven up the trail. As we disposed of these horses at a good figure, I took another herd of horses the next season, 900 head.


We bought the first herd from Upshur Brookin, Mike Carrigan and Tom Welder, and I purchased the second herd from John Welder.

After that, the next year, I drove 2,000 one and two- year-old steers to Ogallala, Nebraska, and when we reached there I put in 2,000 more with the herd and drove to Sydney Bridge, Nebraska, where I delivered half of them to D. R. Fant, who owned them. The remaining 2,000 were driven to the 999 Ranch in Wyoming, where I delivered them to parties who had contracted with Mr. Fant for them.

My next trip was with 2,500 two-year-olds, which were taken to the R—S ranch on Wolf Creek, Indian Territory, and delivered to D. R. Fant, who had purchased the lease on this ranch and had also purchased 4,000 cattle with the lease. Mr. Fant also bought the 17— Ranch lease and cattle, about 1,500 head.

I made a trip from Santa Rosa Ranch with 2,500 two- year-old steers. I drove these for half the profit. The price Mr. Fant put on them was $12 per head. I took them to Runnels County and sold them to John Blocker after the trail was closed.

I have bought cattle all over the country, from the Santa Rosa Ranch to San Fernandez, Mexico, but during the past few years my activities have been limited in this respect, for I have bought and shipped only a few. I bossed the Santa Rosa Ranch for D. R. Fant for eight years and helped put up many herds for him.


By R. F. Sellers, Mathis, Texas

My father, Robert Sellers, came to Texas in 1835 from Tennessee, and was one of the first men to build a log b ouse in LaGrange. He secured a head-right of a league of land in the lower part of Gonzales County, but did


not think enough of it to even go to see it. He was one of the number who went from LaGrange at Sam Houston's call to hold Gonzales from the invading Mexican army, but there were not enough Texans to accomplish this task, so General Houston


detailed him and a few others to keep the women and children ahead of the Mexican army.

I was born in Fayette County in 1849. Father bought a fine tract of land on the prairie on the east side of the Colorado River, fourteen miles above Columbus, and moved there in 1852, and when I was twenty-one years old he turned his stock and farm over to me.

In 1871 I made a trip up the trail to Newton, Kansas, with Barnes & Seymour. We had several hundred old wild steers in the herd that were from four to fifteen years old, which had been raised in the brush on the Sandies, and they stampeded frequently, giving us a world of trouble. So right there I gained a lot of experience in handling stampeded cattle that has been worth a great deal to me in working with cattle in the years that followed. We started this herd about the 10th of May and reached Newton the 12th of August. After we passed Fayette County there were but few settlements, and when we got up near Red River we found it to be a wild country. Almost every man we met carried two six-shooters and a Winchester for protection. When we passed through the Indian Territory we had no trouble with the Indians, but they attempted to stampede our herd several times. Two or three miles off the trail there were thousands of buffalo, all the way


to Kansas, but they were too wild for us to get near them, and the only way to approach near enough to kill the buffalo was to take advantage of the wind and get on the wind side of them. Many men in those days made it a business to kill and skin buffaloes for their hides, which they hauled into the forts and sold. On this trip I saw seven head together that had been killed and skinned.

There were a great many wild horses to be seen, but they were also too wild for us to get very close to them. One day a man nooned at our camp who told us that he had made a great deal of money for several years capturing these mustangs. He had erected pens at convenient distances into which to run them. These pens were made of poles which had been hauled from the river bottoms twenty-five to fifty miles distant. In capturing these horses he told us that his system was to keep right after them in a walk, keeping up the same gait day and night, never allowing them to approach a water hole or take time to graze, and in due time he could drive them into his pens. He sold them to the farmers in Kansas, as that country was just settling up.

I commenced feeding cattle in 1876. In 1882 we sold our farm and I went into the cattle business, paying as high as $22.50 per head for my cattle. In 1884 the price had declined to $5 a head, and I drove them to Colorado and sold them.

In 1885 I put up a herd for Graham & Sisson of Colorado, with the understanding that I was to buy and put in with them if I wanted to do so. I gathered these cattle in Lampasas and adjoining counties, and it was a very dry spring, the worst that had been experienced in many years. There was but little water on the trail from Lampasas to the Indian Nation, We drove the herd to Baird City and shipped them by way of Fort Worth up to Pease River. After we crossed Red River we found but little water that our cattle would drink, and we traveled at one time three days and nights without water


for them, but the morning of the fourth day a heavy rainstorm came upon us and filled all of the shallow holes in the ground with water and supplied our herd. I never in my life saw cattle drink as much as that herd drank. From there on we did not have difficulty in getting water and grass, and made it to the Graham & Sisson ranch in Colorado with our cattle in fine shape.

I suppose I am the oldest feeder in the state, as I commenced in 1876 and have missed only four or five winters since that time. I have bought steers in every county from Brown and Comanche to the coast, and have sold from $2.75 to $14.75.


By L. A. Franks of Pleasanton, Texas

I was born in Guadalupe County, Texas, on the San Geronimo Creek, February 21, 1847. Moved to Atascosa County in 1853. My father, Ben F. Franks, being a cattleman from his boyhood days, I was raised a cowboy from the cradle up and spent my boyhood days in Atascosa County. My father, having passed away in 1862, myself and brother were left to take care of our mother and sisters. I worked cattle and fought Indians for several years, and in 1867 I settled on a ranch of my own in La Salle County. Was married in 1870 to Miss Caroline Chapman of Bell County. After several years raising cattle I started up the trail with my first herd in 1872 for G. W. Chapman and myself. I left La Salle County in March for the Wichita (Kansas) market, and went by way of San Antonio, Austin and Fort Worth and straight on up the trail. We left with 1,000 head of steers and, with plenty of water and grass, we had a good trip and lost only a small number of steers on the way, arriving at the Wichita market in June. Returning to


my ranch, I remained there until 1886 and started up the trail again for Presnall, Withers & Co., this time for Northern New Mexico. I left Presidio County in April and this trip was full of hardships all the way out to Roswell, New Mexico. We went by way of Alpine and Toyah and struck the Pecos River at Hash Knife Ranch, and the night we got there our herd stampeded early in the night and we did not get them checked until early morning. Again at Toyah we had a stampede that lasted all night and until sunrise the next morning, and this time we lost 22 head of steers. We went up the Pecos to Seven Rivers and on up. Striking the Pecos again, we followed it as far as Roswell, New Mexico. We had a tough time getting there, with no grass and no rain. We suffered heavy losses all the way up the Pecos, pulling and digging cattle out of bogs every day and losing some each day. We were a dilapidated looking bunch, cattle, horses and men, and when we arrived within five miles of Roswell we had a glorious rain and storm that made our trip the balance of the way very good. We left the Pecos at Roswell and went up by old Fort Sumner, crossed over to the Canadian River and by the old Bell ranch, then went on up the Goodnight Trail through the mountains and reached the market in July with 1,600 head of steers out of the 2,200 that we left Presidio County with in April. This was my last trip up the trail and I came back to Atascosa County and am still here.


By Robert Farmer Jennings of San Antonio, Texas

My parents are Robert J. and Dorcas Ann Jennings. I was born September 30, 1881, in Guadalupe County, Texas, and when I was three years of age my parents moved to Frio County, where they resided near Pearsall until I was fifteen years old. The following three years


I attended school in San Antonio, after which I went to Childress County and spent six months on the Shoe Nail Ranch, which belonged to Swift & Co., meat packers, where I worked as a cowboy.


My father at the time was manager of this ranch. In July, 1899, I returned to South Texas and began to collect a bunch of cattle of my own, and ranched in Dimmitt, La Salle and Zapata Counties for the following five or six years, during which time a drouth prevailed over the country and I lost all of my accumulation of cattle. I went to Mexico in 1907 as manager of the Piedra Blanca Ranch and remained there until April, 1909, then returned to Texas and began handling cattle with my uncle, W. H. Jennings. From here, I went to Osage County, Oklahoma, and spent two seasons, again returning to Texas to engage in buying and bringing cattle out of Mexico. At the time of President Madero's assassination I was on General Trevion's La Bahia Ranch to buy cattle, but we could not agree on the price. General Trevino sold several thousand head of his cattle to other parties and lost the remainder entirely through being at enmity with Carranza, who confiscated the Trevino cattle and had them driven to Piedras Negras in great herds and killed for his soldiers. Out of 40,000 head General Trevino lost outright probably 25,000.

I ranched in Texas until 1916, when some associates and myself bought the majority interest in the Piedra Blanca Cattle Company of Mexico cattle, and I went to that ranch as manager. I stayed there one year, but on account of having no protection from the bandits that


infested that region, we sold these cattle and brought them to this side of the Rio Grande in Texas. I returned to Atascosa County, where I was interested in cattle, and have spent the remainder of the intervening time in South Texas.

I was married to Miss Ella Alberta Lowrey in December, 1917, and am now residing in San Antonio. I have cattle interests in La Salle and Dimmitt Counties in connection with W. H. and J. D. Jennings.

In September, 1919, I was elected secretary of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, which position I still hold. Being the son of an old trail driver, I complied with the request of Mr. George W. Saunders, the president, to give this brief sketch of my life.


By T. T. Hawkins of Charlotte, Texas


I was born in Guadalupe County, near Seguin, April 7th, 1859, and spent practically all of my life on ranches. I first went up the trail with a herd of horses, in 1879, from Corpus Christi to Cherryvale, Kansas. This was one of the hardest trips I ever made. Our chuck wagon consisted of a Mexican mule about fourteen hands high. The next trip I made was in 1879, this time with a herd of two-year- old steers owned by G. W. Littlefield, driven from the O'Connor ranch near Victoria to Yellow House Canyon.


This was a very pleasant drive, and we had good grass and plenty of water on the way.

The next year I went with a herd of 1,800 cattle bossed by Nat Jackson, going from Kyle, Texas, to Ogallala, Nebraska, where we delivered them to Col. Seth Maberry, after which we drove from there to the Red Cloud Agency to supply a government contract.

The fourth trip was made in 1881, when I went from Taylor, Texas, to Caldwell, Kansas, with a horse herd owned by Kuykendall, Sauls & Burns, with John Burns as boss.

During 1882 and 1883 I worked in the Panhandle of Texas, but in 1884 I went on the trail again with a horse herd owned by H. G. Williams and bossed by Bill Williams. On this trip, somewhere in the vicinity of Abilene, Texas, we came up with George W. Saunders' outfit as they were going up to Kansas. Here we had a stampede, our horses mixed together, so we just let them stay together and drove them from there to Dodge City.

On this trip several things took place that should be mentioned for the benefit of the readers of this book, for they give a clear idea of some of the dangers that beset the men who traveled the trail in those old days. When we reached the Comanche reservation, the Indians demanded horses and provisions from us. As George Saunders could talk Spanish fluently, and was good at making a bluff stick, our outfit and Carroll Mayfield's outfit, which had overtaken us, decided to appoint George to settle with the Indians as best he could. Accordingly he accompanied the chiefs and some of the bucks to a tepee and held a council with them. The old chief could speak Spanish, and when he learned that George was familiar with his old raiding range, he became quite friendly and told him that he knew every trail on the Rio Grande from Laredo to El Paso, knew all of the streams by name, the Nueces, Llano River, Devil's River, Guadalupe River, Pecos River, the Concho and Colorado


Rivers, besides many creeks. He became very talkative and, going to a rude willow basket he had in his wigwam, he brought forth several burrs which he said he had taken from cypress trees of the head of the Guadalupe River. He told Mr. Saunders that he had killed "heap white man" on his raids, but that he was now "heap good Indian, no kill no man."

Saunders offered to make settlement by giving them one horse and some provisions, and the Indians seemed well pleased with this offer. When we started our herd about twenty young bucks riding on beautiful horses, came and helped us swim the cattle across the Canadian River. A number of our horses bogged in the quicksand and had to be dug out, which sport the Indians enjoyed immensely. They fell right in with our boys and helped in every way they could to pull the horses out, and when this work was finished they gave us an exhibition of their riding. Some of the bucks would run by our crowd and invite us to lasso them.

Saunders finally decided to rope one of them, a tall young fellow who was mounted on a well-trained horse, so getting his lariat ready, he waited the coming of the Indian, and as he passed, laying flat on his horse, George threw the rope and it encircled both horse and rider. The Indian's horse. shied around a tree and the Indian and his horse and George and his horse were all thrown heavily to the ground when the rope tightened. The Indian was painfully injured, but when we ran to their assistance we found no serious damage had resulted, although it was a narrow escape for both of the performers. The rope had been drawn so tight around the Indian that it required some time for him to get his lungs in proper action. We thought the Indians would be offended by the accident, but they laughed and guffawed over it in great fashion, and we left them in fine spirits.

As we proceeded on our way we heard the Kiowas


were in an ugly mood, and the next day the old chief, Bacon Rind, and about 200 Kiowa bucks and squaws came to us and they, too, demanded horses and provisions. We sent them to Saunders, of course, for he had