II. MY APPRENTICESHIP

by Andy Adams

　　MY APPRENTICESHIPDuring the winter of 1865-66 I corresponded with several of my oldcomrades in Texas. Beyond a welcome which could not be questioned,little encouragement was, with one exception, offered me among my oldfriends. It was a period of uncertainty throughout the South, yeta cheerful word reached me from an old soldier crony living somedistance west of Fort Worth on the Brazos River. I had greatconfidence in my former comrade, and he held out a hope, assuring methat if I would come, in case nothing else offered, we could take hisox teams the next winter and bring in a cargo of buffalo robes. Theplains to the westward of Fort Griffin, he wrote, were swarming withbuffalo, and wages could be made in killing them for their hides. Thiscaught my fancy and I was impatient to start at once; but the healingof my reopened wound was slow, and it was March before I started. Mybrother gave me a good horse and saddle, twenty-five dollars in gold,and I started through a country unknown to me personally. SouthernMissouri had been in sympathy with the Confederacy, and whatever Ineeded while traveling through that section was mine for the asking.I avoided the Indian Territory until I reached Fort Smith, where Irested several days with an old comrade, who gave me instructions androuted me across the reservation of the Choctaw Indians, and I reachedParis, Texas, without mishap.I remember the feeling that I experienced while being ferried acrossRed River. That watercourse was the northern boundary of Texas, andwhile crossing it I realized that I was leaving home and friends andentering a country the very name of which to the outside world was asynonym for crime and outlawry. Yet some of as good men as ever it wasmy pleasure to know came from that State, and undaunted I held a truecourse for my destination. I was disappointed on seeing Fort Worth, astraggling village on the Trinity River, and, merely halting to feedmy mount, passed on. I had a splendid horse and averaged thirty toforty miles a day when traveling, and early in April reached the homeof my friend in Paolo Pinto County. The primitive valley of the Brazoswas enchanting, and the hospitality of the Edwards ranch was typicalof my own Virginia. George Edwards, my crony, was a year my junior, anative of the State, his parents having moved west from Mississippithe year after Texas won her independence from Mexico. The elderEdwards had moved to his present home some fifteen years previous,carrying with him a stock of horses and cattle, which had increaseduntil in 1866 he was regarded as one of the substantial ranchmen inthe Brazos valley. The ranch house was a stanch one, built at atime when defense was to be considered as well as comfort, and wassurrounded by fine cornfields. The only drawback I could see there wasthat there was no market for anything, nor was there any money in thecountry. The consumption of such a ranch made no impression on theincrease of its herds, which grew to maturity with no demand for thesurplus.I soon became impatient to do something. George Edwards had likewiselost four years in the army, and was as restless as myself. He knewthe country, but the only employment in sight for us was as teamsterswith outfits, freighting government supplies to Fort Griffin. I shouldhave jumped at the chance of driving oxen, for I was anxious to stayin the country, and suggested to George that we ride up to Griffin.But the family interposed, assuring us that there was no occasion forengaging in such menial work, and we folded our arms obediently, orrode the range under the pretense of looking after the cattle. I mightas well admit right here that my anxiety to get away from the Edwardsranch was fostered by the presence of several sisters of my formercomrade. Miss Gertrude was only four years my junior, a very dangerousage, and in spite of all resolutions to the contrary, I felt myselfconstantly slipping. Nothing but my poverty and the hopelessness of itkept me from falling desperately in love.But a temporary relief came during the latter part of May. Reportscame down the river that a firm of drovers were putting up a herd ofcattle for delivery at Fort Sumner, New Mexico. Their headquarterswere at Belknap, a long day's ride above, on the Brazos; andimmediately, on receipt of the news, George and I saddled, andstarted up the river. The elder Edwards was very anxious to sell hisbeef-cattle and a surplus of cow-horses, and we were commissioned tooffer them to the drovers at prevailing prices. On arriving at Belknapwe met the pioneer drover of Texas, Oliver Loving, of the firm ofLoving & Goodnight, but were disappointed to learn that the offeringsin making up the herd were treble the drover's requirements; neitherwas there any chance to sell horses. But an application for work metwith more favor. Mr. Loving warned us of the nature of the country,the dangers to be encountered, all of which we waived, and wereaccordingly employed at forty dollars a month in gold. The herd was tostart early in June. George Edwards returned home to report, but I wasimmediately put to work, as the junior member of the firm was then outreceiving cattle. They had established a camp, and at the time of ouremployment were gathering beef steers in Loving's brand and holdingthe herd as it arrived, so that I was initiated into my duties atonce.I was allowed to retain my horse, provided he did his share of thework. A mule and three range horses were also allotted to me, and Iwas cautioned about their care. There were a number of saddle mules inthe remuda, and Mr. Loving explained that the route was through adry country, and that experience had taught him that a mule couldwithstand thirst longer than a horse. I was a new man in the country,and absorbed every word and idea as a sponge does water. With theexception of roping, I made a hand from the start. The outfit treatedme courteously, there was no concealment of my past occupation, and Isoon had the friendship of every man in the camp. It was some littletime before I met the junior partner, Charlie Goodnight, a strappingyoung fellow of about thirty, who had served all through the war inthe frontier battalion of Texas Rangers. The Comanche Indians had beena constant menace on the western frontier of the State, and during therebellion had allied themselves with the Federal side, and harassedthe settlements along the border. It required a regiment of mountedmen to patrol the frontier from Red River to the coast, as theComanches claimed the whole western half of the State as their huntinggrounds.Early in June the herd began to assume its required numbers. GeorgeEdwards returned, and we naturally became bunkies, sharing ourblankets and having the same guard on night-herd. The droversencouraged all the men employed to bring along their firearms, andwhen we were ready to start the camp looked like an arsenal. I had asix-shooter, and my bunkie brought me a needle-gun from the ranch, sothat I felt armed for any emergency. Each of the men had a rifleof some make or other, while a few of them had as many as fourpistols,--two in their belts and two in saddle holsters. It looked tome as if this was to be a military expedition, and I began to wonderif I had not had enough war the past few years, but kept quiet. Thestart was made June 10, 1866, from the Brazos River, in what is nowYoung County, the herd numbering twenty-two hundred big beeves. Achuck-wagon, heavily loaded with supplies and drawn by six yoke offine oxen, a remuda of eighty-five saddle horses and mules, togetherwith seventeen men, constituted the outfit. Fort Sumner lay to thenorthwest, and I was mildly surprised when the herd bore off to thesouthwest. This was explained by young Goodnight, who was in chargeof the herd, saying that the only route then open or known was on ourpresent course to the Pecos River, and thence up that stream to ourdestination.Indian sign was noticed a few days after starting. Goodnight andLoving both read it as easily as if it had been print,--the abandonedcamps, the course of arrival and departure, the number of horses,indicating who and what they were, war or hunting parties--everythingapparently simple and plain as an alphabet to these plainsmen. Aroundthe camp-fire at night the chronicle of the Comanche tribe for thelast thirty years was reviewed, and their overbearing and defiantattitude towards the people of Texas was discussed, not for mybenefit, as it was common history. Then for the first time I learnedthat the Comanches had once mounted ten thousand warriors, hadfrequently raided the country to the coast, carrying off horsesand white children, even dictating their own terms of peace to therepublic of Texas. At the last council, called for the purpose ofnegotiating for the return of captive white children in possession ofthe Comanches, the assembly had witnessed a dramatic termination. Thesame indignity had been offered before, and borne by the whites, tooweak to resist the numbers of the Comanche tribe. In this latterinstance, one of the war chiefs, in spurning the remuneration offeredfor the return of a certain white girl, haughtily walked into thecentre of the council, where an insult could be seen by all. His act,a disgusting one, was anticipated, as it was not the first time it hadbeen witnessed, when one of the Texans present drew a six-shooter andkilled the chief in the act. The hatchet of the Comanche was instantlydug up, and had not been buried at the time we were crossing a countryclaimed by him as his hunting ground.Yet these drovers seemed to have no fear of an inferior race. We heldour course without a halt, scarcely a day passing without seeing moreor less fresh sign of Indians. After crossing the South Fork of theBrazos, we were attacked one morning just at dawn, the favorite hourof the Indian for a surprise. Four men were on herd with the cattleand one near by with the remuda, our night horses all securely tied tothe wagon wheels. A feint attack was made on the commissary, butunder the leadership of Goodnight a majority of us scrambled into oursaddles and rode to the rescue of the remuda, the chief objectiveof the surprise. Two of the boys from the herd had joined the horsewrangler, and on our arrival all three were wickedly throwing lead atthe circling Indians. The remuda was running at the time, and as wecut through between it and the savages we gave them the benefit of ourrifles and six-shooter in passing. The shots turned the saddle stockback towards our camp and the mounted braves continued on theircourse, not willing to try issues with us, although they outnumberedus three to one. A few arrows had imbedded themselves in the groundaround camp at the first assault, but once our rifles were able todistinguish an object clearly, the Indians kept well out of reach. Thecattle made a few surges, but once the remuda was safe, there wasan abundance of help in holding them, and they quieted down beforesunrise. The Comanches had no use for cattle, except to kill andtorture them, as they preferred the flesh of the buffalo, and onceour saddle stock and the contents of the wagon were denied them, theyfaded into the dips of the plain.The journey was resumed without the delay of an hour. Our first brushwith the noble red man served a good purpose, as we were doublyvigilant thereafter whenever there was cause to expect an attack.There was an abundance of water, as we followed up the South Fork andits tributaries, passing through Buffalo Gap, which was afterward awell-known landmark on the Texas and Montana cattle trail. Passingover the divide between the waters of the Brazos and Concho, we struckthe old Butterfield stage route, running by way of Fort Concho toEl Paso, Texas, on the Rio Grande. This stage road was the originalStaked Plain, surveyed and located by General John Pope in 1846. Theroute was originally marked by stakes, until it became a thoroughfare,from which the whole of northwest Texas afterward took its name. Therewas a ninety-six mile dry drive between the headwaters of the Conchoand Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos, and before attempting it werested a few days. Here Indians made a second attack on us, andalthough as futile as the first, one of the horse wranglers receivedan arrow in the shoulder. In attempting to remove it the shaftseparated from the steel arrowhead, leaving the latter imbedded in thelad's shoulder. We were then one hundred and twelve miles distant fromFort Concho, the nearest point where medical relief might be expected.The drovers were alarmed for the man's welfare; it was impossible tohold the herd longer, so the young fellow volunteered to make the ridealone. He was given the best horse in the remuda, and with the fallingof darkness started for Fort Concho. I had the pleasure of meeting himafterward, as happy as he was hale and hearty.The start across the arid stretch was made at noon. Every hoof hadbeen thoroughly watered in advance, and with the heat of summer on usit promised to be an ordeal to man and beast. But Loving had driven itbefore, and knew fully what was before him as we trailed out under anoonday sun. An evening halt was made for refreshing the inner man,and as soon as darkness settled over us the herd was again started.We were conscious of the presence of Indians, and deceived themby leaving our camp-fire burning, but holding our effects closelytogether throughout the night, the remuda even mixing with the cattle.When day broke we were fully thirty miles from our noon camp of theday before, yet with the exception of an hour's rest there was never ahalt. A second day and night were spent in forging ahead, though itis doubtful if we averaged much over a mile an hour during that time.About fifteen miles out from the Pecos we were due to enter a cañonknown as Castle Mountain Gap, some three or four miles long, the exitof which was in sight of the river. We were anxious to reach theentrance of this cañon before darkness on the third day, as we couldthen cut the cattle into bunches, the cliffs on either side forming alane. Our horses were as good as worthless during the third day, butthe saddle mules seemed to stand grief nobly, and by dint of ceaselesseffort we reached the cañon and turned the cattle loose into it. Thiswas the turning-point in the dry drive. That night two men took halfthe remuda and went through to Horsehead Crossing, returning with themearly the next morning, and we once more had fresh mounts. The herdhad been nursed through the cañon during the night, and although itwas still twelve miles to the river, I have always believed that thosebeeves knew that water was at hand. They walked along briskly; insteadof the constant moaning, their heads were erect, bawling loud anddeep. The oxen drawing the wagon held their chains taut, and thecommissary moved forward as if drawn by a fresh team. There was noattempt to hold the herd compactly, and within an hour after startingon our last lap the herd was strung out three miles. The rear wasfinally abandoned, and when half the distance was covered, the dragcattle to the number of fully five hundred turned out of the trailand struck direct for the river. They had scented the water over fivemiles, and as far as control was concerned the herd was as good asabandoned, except that the water would hold them.Horsehead Crossing was named by General Pope. There is a difference ofopinion as to the origin of the name, some contending that it was dueto the meanderings of the river, forming a horse's head, and othersthat the surveying party was surprised by Indians and lost theirstock. None of us had slept for three nights, and the feeling ofrelief on reaching the Pecos, shared alike by man and beast, isindescribable. Unless one has endured such a trial, only a faint ideaof its hardships can be fully imagined--the long hours of patienttravel at a snail's pace, enveloped by clouds of dust by day, and atnight watching every shadow for a lurking savage. I have since sleptmany a time in the saddle, but in crossing that arid belt the oneconsuming desire to reach the water ahead benumbed every sense savewatchfulness.All the cattle reached the river before the middle of the afternoon,covering a front of five or six miles. The banks of the Pecos wereabrupt, there being fully one hundred and twenty-five feet of deepwater in the channel at the stage crossing. Entrance to the fordconsisted of a wagon-way, cut through the banks, and the cattlecrowded into the river above and below, there being but one exiton either side. Some miles above, the beeves had found severalpassageways down to the water, but in drifting up and down streamthey missed these entrances on returning. A rally was made late thatafternoon to rout the cattle out of the river-bed, one half the outfitgoing above, the remainder working around Horsehead, where the bulk ofthe herd had watered. I had gone upstream with Goodnight, but beforewe reached the upper end of the cattle fresh Indian sign was noticed.There was enough broken country along the river to shelter theredskins, but we kept in the open and cautiously examined every brakewithin gunshot of an entrance to the river. We succeeded in gettingall the animals out of the water before dark, with the exception ofone bunch, where the exit would require the use of a mattock beforethe cattle could climb it, and a few head that had bogged in thequicksand below Horsehead Crossing. There was little danger of a risein the river, the loose contingent had a dry sand-bar on which torest, and as the Indians had no use for them there was little dangerof their being molested before morning.We fell back about a mile from the river and camped for the night.Although we were all dead for sleep, extra caution was taken toprevent a surprise, either Goodnight or Loving remaining on guard overthe outfit, seeing that the men kept awake on herd and that the guardschanged promptly. Charlie Goodnight owned a horse that he contendedcould scent an Indian five hundred yards, and I have never questionedthe statement. He had used him in the Ranger service. The horse byvarious means would show his uneasiness in the immediate presence ofIndians, and once the following summer we moved camp at midnight onaccount of the warnings of that same horse. We had only a remuda withus at the time, but another outfit encamped with us refused to go, andthey lost half their horses from an Indian surprise the next morningand never recovered them. I remember the ridicule which was expressedat our moving camp on the warnings of a horse. "Injun-bit,""Man-afraid-of-his-horses," were some of the terms applied to us,--yetthe practical plainsman knew enough to take warning from his dumbbeast. Fear, no doubt, gives horses an unusual sense of smell, and Ihave known them to detect the presence of a bear, on a favorable wind,at an incredible distance.The night passed quietly, and early the next morning we rode torecover the remainder of the cattle. An effort was also made to rescuethe bogged ones. On approaching the river, we found the beeves stillresting quietly on the sand-bar. But we had approached them at anangle, for directly over head and across the river was a brakeovergrown with thick brush, a splendid cover in which Indians might belurking in the hope of ambushing any one who attempted to drive outthe beeves. Two men were left with a single mattock to cut out andimprove the exit, while the rest of us reconnoitered the thicketymotte across the river. Goodnight was leery of the thicket, andsuggested firing a few shots into it. We all had long-range guns, thedistance from bank to bank was over two hundred yards, and a fusilladeof shots was accordingly poured into the motte. To my surprise we wererewarded by seeing fully twenty Indians skulk out of the upper end ofthe cover. Every man raised his sights and gave them a parting volley,but a mesquite thicket, in which their horses were secreted, soonsheltered them and they fell back into the hills on the western sideof the river. With the coast thus cleared, half a dozen of us rodedown into the river-bed and drove out the last contingent of aboutthree hundred cattle. Goodnight informed us that those Indians hadno doubt been watching us for days, and cautioned us never to give aComanche an advantage, advice which I never forgot.On our return every one of the bogged cattle had been freed except twoheavy beeves. These animals were mired above the ford, in rather deepwater, and it was simply impossible to release them. The drovers wereanxious to cross the river that afternoon, and a final effort was madeto rescue the two steers. The oxen were accordingly yoked, and, withall the chain available, were driven into the river and fastened onto the nearest one. Three mounted drivers had charge of the team, andwhen the word was given six yoke of cattle bowed their necks and threwtheir weight against the yokes; but the quicksand held the steer inspite of all their efforts. The chain was freed from it, and the oxenwere brought around and made fast again, at an angle and where thefooting was better for the team. Again the word was given, and asthe six yoke swung round, whips and ropes were plied amid a generalshouting, and the team brought out the steer, but with a broken neck.There were no regrets, and our attention was at once given to theother steer. The team circled around, every available chain wasbrought into use, in order to afford the oxen good footing on astraight-away pull with the position in which the beef lay bogged.The word was given for an easy pull, the oxen barely stretched theirchains, and were stopped. Goodnight cautioned the drivers that unlessthe pull was straight ahead another neck would be broken. A secondtrial was made; the oxen swung and weaved, the chains fairly cried,the beef's head went under water, but the team was again checked intime to keep the steer from drowning. After a breathing spell for oxenand victim, the call was made for a rush. A driver was placed overevery yoke and the word given, and the oxen fell to their knees in thestruggle, whips cracked over their backs, ropes were plied by everyman in charge, and, amid a din of profanity applied to the strugglingcattle, the team fell forward in a general collapse. At first it wasthought the chain had parted, but as the latter came out of the waterit held in its iron grasp the horns and a portion of the skull of thedying beef. Several of us rode out to the victim, whose brain laybare, still throbbing and twitching with life. Rather than allow hisremains to pollute the river, we made a last pull at an angle, and thedead beef was removed.We bade Horsehead Crossing farewell that afternoon and camped for thenight above Dagger Bend. Our route now lay to the northwest, or upthe Pecos River. We were then out twenty-one days from Belknap,and although only half way to our destination, the worst of it wasconsidered over. There was some travel up and down the Pecos valley,the route was even then known as the Chisum trail, and afterwardextended as far north as Fort Logan in Colorado and other governmentposts in Wyoming. This cattle trace should never be confounded withthe Chisholm trail, first opened by a half-breed named Jesse Chisholm,which ran from Red River Station on the northern boundary of Texas tovarious points in Kansas. In cutting across the bends of the Rio Pecoswe secured water each day for the herd, although we were frequentlyunder the necessity of sloping down the banks with mattocks to let thecattle into the river. By this method it often took us three or fourhours to water the herd. Until we neared Fort Sumner precaution neverrelaxed against an Indian surprise. Their sign was seen almost daily,but as there were weaker outfits than ours passing through we escapedany further molestation.The methods of handling such a herd were a constant surprise to me, aswell as the schooling of these plainsmen drovers. Goodnight had cometo the plains when a boy of ten, and was a thorough master of theirsecrets. On one occasion, about midway between Horsehead Crossing andour destination, difficulty was encountered in finding an entrance tothe river on account of its abrupt banks. It was late in the day,and in order to insure a quiet night with the cattle water became anurgent necessity. Our young foreman rode ahead and found a dry, sandycreek, its bed fully fifty yards wide, but no water, though the sandwas damp. The herd was held back until sunset, when the cattle wereturned into the creek bed and held as compactly as possible. The heavybeeves naturally walked back and forth, up and down, the sand justmoist enough to aggravate them after a day's travel under a July sun.But the tramping soon agitated the sands, and within half an hourafter the herd had entered the dry creek the water arose in pools,and the cattle drank to their hearts' content. As dew falls at night,moisture likewise rises in the earth, and with the twilight hour, theagitation of the sands, and the weight of the cattle, a spring wasproduced in the desert waste.Fort Sumner was a six-company post and the agency of the Apaches andNavajos. These two tribes numbered over nine thousand people, and ourherd was intended to supply the needs of the military post and theseIndians. The contract was held by Patterson & Roberts, eligible byvirtue of having cast their fortunes with the victor in "the lateunpleasantness," and otherwise fine men. We reached the post on the20th of July. There was a delay of several days before the cattle wereaccepted, but all passed the inspection with the exception of aboutone hundred head. These were cattle which had not recuperated from thedry drive. Some few were footsore or thin in flesh, but taken as awhole the delivery had every earmark of an honest one. Fortunatelythis remnant was sold a few days later to some Colorado men, andwe were foot-loose and free. Even the oxen had gone in on the maindelivery, and harnesses were accordingly bought, a light tonguefitted to the wagon, and we were ready to start homeward. Mules weresubstituted for the oxen, and we averaged forty miles a day returning,almost itching for an Indian attack, as we had supplied ourselves withammunition from the post sutler. The trip had been a financial success(the government was paying ten cents a pound for beef on foot),friendly relations had been established with the holders of the award,and we hastened home to gather and drive another herd.