I. IN RETROSPECT

by Andy Adams

　　IN RETROSPECTI can truthfully say that my entire life has been spent with cattle.Even during my four years' service in the Confederate army, thegreater portion was spent with the commissary department, in charge ofits beef supplies. I was wounded early in the second year of the warand disabled as a soldier, but rather than remain at home I accepteda menial position under a quartermaster. Those were strenuous times.During Lee's invasion of Pennsylvania we followed in the wake of thearmy with over a thousand cattle, and after Gettysburg we led theretreat with double that number. Near the close of the war wefrequently had no cattle to hold, and I became little more than acamp-follower.I was born in the Shenandoah Valley, northern Virginia, May 3, 1840.My father was a thrifty planter and stockman, owned a few slaves, andas early as I can remember fed cattle every winter for the easternmarkets. Grandfather Anthony, who died before I was born, was aScotchman who had emigrated to the Old Dominion at an early day,and acquired several large tracts of land on an affluent of theShenandoah. On my paternal side I never knew any of my ancestors, buthave good cause to believe they were adventurers. My mother's maidenname was Reed; she was of a gentle family, who were able to tracetheir forbears beyond the colonial days, even to the gentry ofEngland. Generations of good birth were reflected in my mother;and across a rough and eventful life I can distinctly remember therefinement of her manners, her courtesy to guests, her kindness tochild and slave.My boyhood days were happy ones. I attended a subscription schoolseveral miles from home, riding back and forth on a pony. The studieswere elementary, and though I never distinguished myself in myclasses, I was always ready to race my pony, and never refused to playtruant when the swimming was good. Evidently my father never intendedany of his boys for a professional career, though it was an earnesthope of my mother that all of us should receive a college education.My elder brother and I early developed business instincts, buyingcalves and accompanying our father on his trading expeditions. Onceduring a vacation, when we were about twelve and ten years old, bothof us crossed the mountains with him into what is now West Virginia,where he bought about two hundred young steers and drove them back toour home in the valley. I must have been blessed with an unfailingmemory; over fifty years have passed since that, my first trip fromhome, yet I remember it vividly--can recall conversations between myfather and the sellers as they haggled over the cattle. I remember themoney, gold and silver, with which to pay for the steers, was carriedby my father in ordinary saddle-bags thrown across his saddle. Asoccasion demanded, frequently the funds were carried by a negro man ofours, and at night, when among acquaintances, the heavy saddle-bagswere thrown into a corner, every one aware of their contents.But the great event of my boyhood was a trip to Baltimore. There wasno railroad at the time, and as that was our market for fat cattle,it was necessary to drive the entire way. My father had made the tripyearly since I could remember, the distance being nearly two hundredmiles, and generally carrying as many as one hundred and fifty bigbeeves. They traveled slowly, pasturing or feeding grain on the way,in order that the cattle should arrive at the market in salablecondition. One horse was allowed with the herd, and on another myfather rode, far in advance, to engage pasture or feed and shelter forhis men. When on the road a boy always led a gentle ox in the lead ofthe beeves; negro men walked on either flank, and the horseman broughtup the rear. I used to envy the boy leading the ox, even though he wasa darky. The negro boys on our plantation always pleaded with "Mars"John, my father, for the privilege; and when one of them had made thetrip to Baltimore as a toll boy he easily outranked us younger whites.I must have made application for the position when I was about sevenyears old, for it seemed an age before my request was granted. Mybrother, only two years older than I, had made the trip twice, andwhen I was twelve the great opportunity came. My father had nearly twohundred cattle to go to market that year, and the start was made onemorning early in June. I can distinctly see my mother standing on theveranda of our home as I led the herd by with a big red ox, tremblingwith fear that at the final moment her permission might be withdrawnand that I should have to remain behind. But she never interfered withmy father, who took great pains to teach his boys everything practicalin the cattle business.It took us twenty days to reach Baltimore. We always started early inthe morning, allowing the beeves to graze and rest along the road, andsecuring good pastures for them at night. Several times it rained,making the road soft, but I stripped off my shoes and took itbarefooted through the mud. The lead ox was a fine, big fellow, eachhorn tipped with a brass knob, and he and I set the pace, which wasscarcely that of a snail. The days were long, I grew desperatelyhungry between meals, and the novelty of leading that ox soon lost itsromance. But I was determined not to show that I was tired or hungry,and frequently, when my father was with us and offered to take me upbehind him on his horse, I spurned his offer and trudged on tillthe end of the day. The mere driving of the beeves would have beenmonotonous, but the constant change of scene kept us in good spirits,and our darkies always crooned old songs when the road passed throughwoodlands. After the beeves were marketed we spent a day in the city,and my father took my brother and me to the theatre. Although theworld was unfolding rather rapidly for a country boy of twelve, itwas with difficulty that I was made to understand that what we hadwitnessed on the stage was but mimicry.The third day after reaching the city we started on our return. Theproceeds from the sale of the cattle were sent home by boat. With onlytwo horses, each of which carried double, and walking turn about, wereached home in seven days, settling all bills on the way. That yearwas a type of others until I was eighteen, at which age I could guesswithin twenty pounds of the weight of any beef on foot, and when Ibought calves and yearling steers I knew just what kind of cattle theywould make at maturity. In the mean time, one summer my father hadgone west as far as the State of Missouri, traveling by boat toJefferson City, and thence inland on horseback. Several of ourneighbors had accompanied him, all of them buying land, my fathersecuring four sections. I had younger brothers growing up, and theyear my oldest brother attained his majority my father outfitted himwith teams, wagons, and two trusty negro men, and we started for thenearest point on the Ohio River, our destination being the new landsin the West. We embarked on the first boat, drifting down the Ohio,and up the other rivers, reaching the Ultima Thule of our hopes withina month. The land was new; I liked it; we lived on venison and wildturkeys, and when once we had built a log house and opened a fewfields, we were at peace with the earth.But this happy existence was of short duration. Rumors of war reachedus in our western elysium, and I turned my face homeward, as did manyanother son of Virginia. My brother was sensible enough to remainbehind on the new farm; but with nothing to restrain me I soon foundmyself in St. Louis. There I met kindred spirits, eager for the comingfray, and before attaining my majority I was bearing arms and wearingthe gray of the Confederacy. My regiment saw very little serviceduring the first year of the war, as it was stationed in the westerndivision, but early in 1862 it was engaged in numerous actions.I shall never forget my first glimpse of the Texas cavalry. We hadmoved out from Corinth, under cover of darkness, to attack Grant atPittsburg Landing. When day broke, orders were given to open out andallow the cavalry to pass ahead and reconnoitre our front. I hadalways felt proud of Virginian horsemanship, but those Texans were ina class by themselves. Centaur-like they sat their horses, and for ouramusement, while passing at full gallop, swung from their saddles andpicked up hats and handkerchiefs. There was something about the Texansthat fascinated me, and that Sunday morning I resolved, if spared, tomake Texas my future home. I have good cause to remember the battle ofShiloh, for during the second day I was twice wounded, yet saved fromfalling into the enemy's hands.My recovery was due to youth and a splendid constitution. Within sixweeks I was invalided home, and inside a few months I was assigned tothe commissary department with the army in Virginia. It was while inthe latter service that I made the acquaintance of many Texans, fromwhom I learned a great deal about the resources of their State,--itsimmense herds of cattle, the cheapness of its lands, and its perpetualsummer. During the last year of the war, on account of their abilityto handle cattle, a number of Texans were detailed to care for thearmy's beef supply. From these men I received much information and apressing invitation to accompany them home, and after the parole atAppomattox I took their address, promising to join them in the nearfuture. On my return to the old homestead I found the place desolate,with burnt barns and fields laid waste. The Shenandoah Valley hadexperienced war in its dread reality, for on every hand were thecharred remains of once splendid homes. I had little hope that thecountry would ever recover, but my father, stout-hearted as ever, hadalready begun anew, and after helping him that summer and fall I againdrifted west to my brother's farm.The war had developed a restless, vagabond spirit in me. I had littleheart to work, was unsettled as to my future, and, to add to my othertroubles, after reaching Missouri one of my wounds reopened. In themean time my brother had married, and had a fine farm opened up. Heoffered me every encouragement and assistance to settle down tothe life of a farmer; but I was impatient, worthless, undergoing aformative period of early manhood, even spurning the advice of father,mother, and dearest friends. If to-day, across the lapse of years, thequestion were asked what led me from the bondage of my discontent, itwould remain unanswered. Possibly it was the advantage of good birth;surely the prayers of a mother had always followed me, and my feetwere finally led into the paths of industry. Since that day ofuncertainty, grandsons have sat upon my knee, clamoring for a storyabout Indians, the war, or cattle trails. If I were to assign a motivefor thus leaving a tangible record of my life, it would be that myposterity--not the present generation, absorbed in its greed of gain,but a more distant and a saner one--should be enabled to glean a faintidea of one of their forbears. A worthy and secondary motive is togive an idea of the old West and to preserve from oblivion a rapidlyvanishing type of pioneers.My personal appearance can be of little interest to cominggenerations, but rather what I felt, saw, and accomplished. It wasalways a matter of regret to me that I was such a poor shot with apistol. The only two exceptions worthy of mention were mere accidents.In my boyhood's home, in Virginia, my father killed yearly a largenumber of hogs for the household needs as well as for supplying ourslave families with bacon. The hogs usually ran in the woods, feedingand thriving on the mast, but before killing time we always baitedthem into the fields and finished their fattening with peas and corn.It was customary to wait until the beginning of winter, or about thesecond cold spell, to butcher, and at the time in question there wereabout fifty large hogs to kill. It was a gala event with us boys, theoldest of whom were allowed to shoot one or more with a rifle. Thehogs had been tolled into a small field for the killing, and towardsthe close of the day a number of them, having been wounded andrequiring a second or third shot, became cross. These subsequent shotswere usually delivered from a six-shooter, and in order to have it athand in case of a miss I was intrusted with carrying the pistol. Therewas one heavy-tusked five-year-old stag among the hogs that year whorefused to present his head for a target, and took refuge in a brierthicket. He was left until the last, when we all sallied out to makethe final kill. There were two rifles, and had the chance come to myfather, I think he would have killed him easily; but the opportunitycame to a neighbor, who overshot, merely causing a slight wound. Thenext instant the stag charged at me from the cover of the thicketyfence corner. Not having sense enough to take to the nearestprotection, I turned and ran like a scared wolf across the field, thehog following me like a hound. My father risked a running shot, whichmissed its target. The darkies were yelling, "Run, chile! Run, Mars'Reed! Shoot! Shoot!" when it occurred to me that I had a pistol; andpointing it backward as I ran, I blazed away, killing the big fellowin his tracks.The other occasion was years afterward, when I was a trail foreman atAbilene, Kansas. My herd had arrived at that market in bad condition,gaunted from almost constant stampedes at night, and I had gone intocamp some distance from town to quiet and recuperate them. That day Iwas sending home about half my men, had taken them to the depot withour wagon, and intended hauling back a load of supplies to my camp.After seeing the boys off I hastened about my other business, and nearthe middle of the afternoon started out of town. The distance to campwas nearly twenty miles, and with a heavy load, principally salt, Iknew it would be after nightfall when I reached there. About fivemiles out of town there was a long, gradual slope to climb, and I hadto give the through team their time in pulling to its summit. Near thedivide was a small box house, the only one on the road if I rememberrightly, and as I was nearing it, four or five dogs ran out and scaredmy team. I managed to hold them in the road, but they refused to quietdown, kicking, rearing, and plunging in spite of their load; and onceas they jerked me forward, I noticed there was a dog or two under thewagon, nipping at their heels. There was a six-shooter lying on theseat beside me, and reaching forward I fired it downward over the endgate of the wagon. By the merest accident I hit a dog, who raised acry, and the last I saw of him he was spinning like a top and howlinglike a wolf. I quieted the team as soon as possible, and as I lookedback, there was a man and woman pursuing me, the latter in the lead. Ihad gumption enough to know that they were the owners of the dog, andwhipped up the horses in the hope of getting away from them. But thegrade and the load were against me, and the next thing I knew, a big,bony woman, with fire in her eye, was reaching for me. The wagon wheelwarded her off, and I leaned out of her reach to the far side, yet shekept abreast of me, constantly calling for her husband to hurry up.I was pouring the whip into the horses, fearful lest she would climbinto the wagon, when the hub of the front wheel struck her on theknee, knocking her down. I was then nearing the summit of the divide,and on reaching it, I looked back and saw the big woman giving herhusband the pommeling that was intended for me. She was altogether toonear me yet, and I shook the lines over the horses, firing a few shotsto frighten them, and we tore down the farther slope like a fireengine.There are two events in my life that this chronicle will not fullyrecord. One of them is my courtship and marriage, and the other myconnection with a government contract with the Indian department.Otherwise my life shall be as an open book, not only for my ownposterity, but that he who runs may read. It has been a matter ofobservation with me that a plain man like myself scarcely ever refersto his love affairs. At my time of life, now nearing my alloted span,I have little sympathy with the great mass of fiction which exploitsthe world-old passion. In no sense of the word am I a well-read man,yet I am conscious of the fact that during my younger days the lovestory interested me; but when compared with the real thing, thetranscript is usually a poor one. My wife and I have now walked upand down the paths of life for over thirty-five years, and, if memoryserves me right, neither one of us has ever mentioned the idea ofgetting a divorce. In youth we shared our crust together; childrensoon blessed and brightened our humble home, and to-day, surrounded byevery comfort that riches can bestow, no achievement in life has givenme such great pleasure, I know no music so sweet, as the prattle of myown grandchildren. Therefore that feature of my life is sacred, andwill not be disclosed in these pages.I would omit entirely mention of the Indian contract, were it not thatold friends may read this, my biography, and wonder at the omission. Ihave no apologies to offer for my connection with the transaction, asits true nature was concealed from me in the beginning, and a scandalwould have resulted had I betrayed friends. Then again, before generalamnesty was proclaimed I was debarred from bidding on the manyrich government contracts for cattle because I had served in theConfederate army. Smarting under this injustice at the time the Indiancontract was awarded, I question if I was thoroughly _reconstructed._Before our disabilities were removed, we ex-Confederates could do allthe work, run all the risk, turn in all the cattle in filling theoutstanding contracts, but the middleman got the profits. The contractin question was a blanket one, requiring about fifty thousand cows fordelivery at some twenty Indian agencies. The use of my name was allthat was required of me, as I was the only cowman in the entire ring.My duty was to bid on the contract; the bonds would be furnished by mypartners, of which I must have had a dozen. The proposals called forsealed bids, in the usual form, to be in the hands of the Departmentof the Interior before noon on a certain day, marked so and so, and tobe opened at high noon a week later. The contract was a large one, thecompetition was ample. Several other Texas drovers besides myself hadsubmitted bids; but they stood no show--_I had been furnished thefigures of every competitor._ The ramifications of the ring of whichI was the mere figure-head can be readily imagined. I sublet thecontract to the next lowest bidder, who delivered the cattle, and wegot a rake-off of a clean hundred thousand dollars. Even then therewas little in the transaction for me, as it required too many peopleto handle it, and none of them stood behind the door at the final"divvy." In a single year I have since cleared twenty times what myinterest amounted to in that contract and have done honorably bymy fellowmen. That was my first, last, and only connection with atransaction that would need deodorizing if one described the details.But I have seen life, have been witness to its poetry and pathos, havedrunk from the cup of sorrow and rejoiced as a strong man to run arace. I have danced all night where wealth and beauty mingled, andagain under the stars on a battlefield I have helped carry a stretcherwhen the wails of the wounded on every hand were like the despairingcries of lost souls. I have seen an old demented man walking thestreets of a city, picking up every scrap of paper and scanning itcarefully to see if a certain ship had arrived at port--a ship whichhad been lost at sea over forty years before, and aboard of which werehis wife and children. I was once under the necessity of makinga payment of twenty-five thousand dollars in silver at an Indianvillage. There were no means of transportation, and I was forced tocarry the specie in on eight pack mules. The distance was nearly twohundred miles, and as we neared the encampment we were under thenecessity of crossing a shallow river. It was summer-time, and as wehalted the tired mules to loosen the lash ropes, in order to allowthem to drink, a number of Indian children of both sexes, whowere bathing in the river, gathered naked on either embankment inbewilderment at such strange intruders. In the innocence of thesechildren of the wild there was no doubt inspiration for a poet; butour mission was a commercial one, and we relashed the mules andhurried into the village with the rent money.I have never kept a diary. One might wonder that the human mindcould contain such a mass of incident and experiences as has been myportion, yet I can remember the day and date of occurrences of fiftyyears ago. The scoldings of my father, the kind words of an indulgentmother, when not over five years of age, are vivid in my memory as Iwrite to-day. It may seem presumptuous, but I can give the year anddate of starting, arrival, and delivery of over one hundred herds ofcattle which I drove over the trail as a common hand, foreman,or owner. Yet the warnings of years--the unsteady step, easilyembarrassed, love of home and dread of leaving it--bid me hasten thesememoirs. Even my old wounds act as a barometer in foretelling thecoming of storms, as well as the change of season, from both of whichI am comfortably sheltered. But as I look into the inquiring eyes of acircle of grandchildren, all anxious to know my life story, it seemsto sweeten the task, and I am encouraged to go on with the work.