Chapter V. Red River Station

by Andy Adams

　　When the spirit of a man is once broken, he becomes useless. Onthe trail it is necessary to have some diversion from hard work,long hours, and exposure to the elements. With man and beast,from the Brazos to Red River was a fire test of physicalendurance. But after crossing into the Chickasaw Nation, acomparatively new country would open before us. When the strainof the past week was sorest, in buoying up the spirits of myoutfit, I had promised them rest and recreation at the firstpossible opportunity.Fortunately we had an easy ford. There was not even an indicationthat there had been a freshet on the river that spring. This wastempering the wind, for we were crippled, three of the boys beingunable to resume their places around the herd on account ofinflamed eyes. The cook had weathered the sand-storm better thanany of us. Sheltering his team, and fastening his wagon-sheetsecurely, he took refuge under it until the gale had passed.Pressing him into the service the next morning, and assigning himto the drag end of the herd, I left the blind to lead the blindin driving the wagon. On reaching the river about the middle ofthe forenoon, we trailed the cattle across in a long chain, notan animal being compelled to swim. The wagon was carried over ona ferryboat, as it was heavily loaded, a six weeks' supply ofprovisions having been taken on before crossing. Once the trailleft the breaks, on the north side of the river, we drew offseveral miles to the left and went into camp for the remainder ofthe day. Still keeping clear of the trail, daily we moved forwardthe wagon from three to five miles, allowing the cattle to grazeand rest to contentment. The herd recuperated rapidly, and by theevening of the fourth day after crossing, the inflammation was soreduced in those whose eyes were inflamed, that we decided tostart in earnest the next morning.The cook was ordered to set out the best the wagon afforded,several outside delicacies were added, and a feast was in sight.G--G Cederdall had recrossed the river that day to mail a letter,and on his return proudly carried a basket of eggs on his arm.Three of the others had joined a fishing party from the Texasside, and had come in earlier in the day with a fine string offish. Parent won new laurels in the supper to which he invited usabout sundown. The cattle came in to their beds groaning andsatiated, and dropped down as if ordered. When the first watchhad taken them, there was nothing to do but sit around and tellstories. Since crossing Red River, we had slept almost night andday, but in that balmy May evening sleep was banished. The factthat we were in the Indian country, civilized though the Indianswere, called forth many an incident. The raids of the Comanchesinto the Panhandle country during the buffalo days was a favoritetopic. Vick Wolf, however, had had an Indian experience in theNorth with which he regaled us at the first opportunity."There isn't any trouble nowadays," said he, lighting acigarette, "with these blanket Indians on the reservations. I hadan experience once on a reservation where the Indians could havegot me easy enough if they had been on the war-path. It was thefirst winter I ever spent on a Northern range, having gone up tothe Cherokee Strip to avoid--well, no matter. I got a job in theStrip, not riding, but as a kind of an all-round rustler. Thiswas long before the country was fenced, and they rode lines tokeep the cattle on their ranges. One evening about nightfall inDecember, the worst kind of a blizzard struck us that the countryhad ever seen. The next day it was just as bad, and bloody cold.A fellow could not see any distance, and to venture away from thedugout meant to get lost. The third day she broke and the suncame out clear in the early evening. The next day we managed togather the saddle horses, as they had not drifted like thecattle."Well, we were three days overtaking the lead of that cattledrift, and then found them in the heart of the Cheyenne country,at least on that reservation. They had drifted a good hundredmiles before the storm broke. Every outfit in the Strip had gonesouth after their cattle. Instead of drifting them back together,the different ranches rustled for their own. Some of the foremenpaid the Indians so much per head to gather for them, but oursdidn't. The braves weren't very much struck on us on thataccount. I was cooking for the outfit, which suited me in winterweather. We had a permanent camp on a small well-wooded creek,from which we worked all the country round."One afternoon when I was in camp all alone, I noticed an Indianapproaching me from out of the timber. There was a Winchesterstanding against the wagon wheel, but as the bucks were making notrouble, I gave the matter no attention. Mr. Injun came up to thefire and professed to be very friendly, shook hands, and spokequite a number of words in English. After he got good and warm,he looked all over the wagon, and noticing that I had nosixshooter on, he picked up the carbine and walked out about ahundred yards to a little knoll, threw his arms in the air, andmade signs."Instantly, out of the cover of some timber on the creek aquarter above, came about twenty young bucks, mounted, andyelling like demons. When they came up, they began circlingaround the fire and wagon. I was sitting on an empty corn-crateby the fire. One young buck, seeing that I was not scaring tosuit him, unslung a carbine as he rode, and shot into the firebefore me. The bullet threw fire and ashes all over me, and Ijumped about ten feet, which suited them better. They circledaround for several minutes, every one uncovering a carbine, andthey must have fired a hundred and fifty shots into the fire. Infact they almost shot it out, scattering the fire around so thatit came near burning up the bedding of our outfit. I was scaredthoroughly by this time. If it was possible for me to have hadfits, I'd have had one sure. The air seemed full of coals of fireand ashes. I got good practical insight into what hell's like. Iwas rustling the rolls of bedding out of the circle of fire,expecting every moment would be my last. It's a wonder I wasn'tkilled. Were they throwing lead? Well, I should remark! You seethe ground was not frozen around the fire, and the bullets buriedthemselves in the soft soil."After they had had as much fun as they wanted, the leader gave ayell and they all circled the other way once, and struck backinto the timber. Some of them had brought up the decoy Indian'shorse when they made the dash at first, and he suddenly turned aswild as a Cheyenne generally gets. When the others were severalhundred yards away, he turned his horse, rode back some littledistance, and attracted my attention by holding out theWinchester. From his horse he laid it carefully down on theground, whirled his pony, and rode like a scared wolf after theothers. I could hear their yells for miles, as they made fortheir encampment over on the North Fork. As soon as I got thefire under control, I went out and got the carbine. It was empty;the Indian had used its magazine in the general hilarity. Thatmay be an Indian's style of fun, but I failed to see where therewas any in it for me."The cook threw a handful of oily fish-bones on the fire, causingit to flame up for a brief moment. With the exception of WayneOutcault, who was lying prone on the ground, the men were smokingand sitting Indian fashion around the fire. After rolling awhileuneasily, Outcault sat up and remarked, "I feel about half sick.Eat too much? Don't you think it. Why, I only ate seven or eightof those fish, and that oughtn't to hurt a baby. There was onlyhalf a dozen hard-boiled eggs to the man, and I don't remember ofany of you being so generous as to share yours with me. Those fewplates of prunes that I ate for dessert wouldn't hurt nobody--they're medicine to some folks. Unroll our bed, pardner, and I'llthrash around on it awhile."Several trail stories of more or less interest were told, whenRunt Pickett, in order to avoid the smoke, came over and sat downbetween Burl Van Vedder and me. He had had an experience, andinstantly opened on us at short range. "Speaking of stampedes,"said Runt, "reminds me of a run I was in, and over which I waspaid by my employer a very high compliment. My first trip overthe trail, as far north as Dodge, was in '78. The herd sold nextday after reaching there, and as I had an old uncle and auntliving in middle Kansas, I concluded to run down and pay them ashort visit. So I threw away all my trail togs--well, they wereworn out, anyway--and bought me a new outfit complete. Yes, Ieven bought button shoes. After visiting a couple of weeks withmy folks, I drifted back to Dodge in the hope of getting in withsome herd bound farther north--I was perfectly useless on a farm.On my return to Dodge, the only thing about me that indicated acow-hand was my Texas saddle and outfit, but in toggery, in myvisiting harness, I looked like a rank tenderfoot."Well, boys, the first day I struck town I met a through manlooking for hands. His herd had just come in over the ChisholmTrail, crossing to the western somewhere above. He was disgustedwith his outfit, and was discharging men right and left andhiring new ones to take their places. I apologized for myappearance, showed him my outfit, and got a job cow-punching withthis through man. He expected to hold on sale a week or two, whenif unsold he would drift north to the Platte. The first week thatI worked, a wet stormy night struck us, and before ten o'clock welost every hoof of cattle. I was riding wild after little squadsof cattle here and there, guided by flashes of lightning, whenthe storm finally broke. Well, there it was midnight, and Ididn't have a hoof of cattle to hold and no one to help me if Ihad. The truth is, I was lost. Common horse-sense told me that;but where the outfit or wagon was was anybody's guess. The horsesin my mount were as good as worthless; worn out, and if you gaveone free rein he lacked the energy to carry you back to camp. Iploughed around in the darkness for over an hour, but finallycame to a sudden stop on the banks of the muddy Arkansaw. Rightthere I held a council of war with myself, the decision of whichwas that it was at least five miles to the wagon."After I'd prowled around some little time, a bright flash oflightning revealed to me an old deserted cabin a few rods below.To this shelter I turned without even a bid, unsaddled my horseand picketed him, and turned into the cabin for the night. Earlythe next morning I was out and saddled my horse, and the questionwas, Which way is camp? As soon as the sun rose clearly, I got mybearings. By my reasoning, if the river yesterday was south ofcamp, this morning the wagon must be north of the river, so Iheaded in that direction. Somehow or other I stopped my horse onthe first little knoll, and looking back towards the bottom, Isaw in a horseshoe which the river made a large bunch of cattle.Of course I knew that all herds near about were through cattleand under herd, and the absence of any men in sight aroused mycuriosity. I concluded to investigate it, and riding back foundover five hundred head of the cattle we had lost the nightbefore. 'Here's a chance to make a record with my new boss,' Isaid to myself, and circling in behind, began drifting them outof the bottoms towards the uplands. By ten o'clock I had got themto the first divide, when who should ride up but the owner, theold cowman himself--the sure enough big auger."'Well, son,' said my boss, 'you held some of them, didn't you?''Yes,' I replied, surly as I could, giving him a mean look, 'I'venearly ridden this horse to death, holding this bunch all night.If I had only had a good man or two with me, we could have caughttwice as many. What kind of an outfit are you working, anyhow,Captain?' And at dinner that day, the boss pointed me out to theothers and said, 'That little fellow standing over there with thebutton shoes on is the only man in my outfit that is worth a --------.'"The cook had finished his work, and now joined the circle. Parentbegan regaling us with personal experiences, in which it wasevident that he would prove the hero. Fortunately, however, wewere spared listening to his self-laudation. Dorg Seay and TimStanley, bunkies, engaged in a friendly scuffle, each trying tomake the other get a firebrand for his pipe. In the tussle whichfollowed, we were all compelled to give way or get trampledunderfoot. When both had exhausted themselves in vain, we resumedour places around the fire. Parent, who was disgusted over theinterruption, on resuming his seat refused to continue his storyat the request of the offenders, replying, "The more I see of youtwo varmints the more you remind me of mule colts."Once the cook refused to pick up the broken thread of his story,John Levering, our horse-wrangler, preempted the vacated post. "Iwas over in Louisiana a few winters ago with a horse herd," saidJohn, "and had a few experiences. Of all the simple people that Iever met, the 'Cajin' takes the bakery. You'll meet darkies overthere that can't speak a word of anything but French. It'snothing to see a cow and mule harnessed together to a cart. Oneday on the road, I met a man, old enough to be my father, andinquired of him how far it was to the parish centre, a largetown. He didn't know, except it was a long, long ways. He hadnever been there, but his older brother, once when he was a youngman, had been there as a witness at court. The brother was deadnow, but if he was living and present, it was quite possible thathe would remember the distance. The best information was that itwas a very long ways off. I rode it in the mud in less than twohours; just about ten miles."But that wasn't a circumstance to other experiences. We haddriven about three hundred horses and mules, and after disposingof over two thirds of them, my employer was compelled to returnhome, leaving me to dispose of the remainder. I was a fairsalesman, and rather than carry the remnant of the herd with me,made headquarters with a man who owned a large cane-brakepasture. It was a convenient stopping-place, and the stock didwell on the young cane. Every week I would drive to some distanttown eighteen or twenty head, or as many as I could handle alone.Sometimes I would sell out in a few days, and then again it wouldtake me longer. But when possible I always made it a rule to getback to my headquarters to spend Sunday. The owner of thecane-brake and his wife were a simple couple, and just a shade ortwo above the Arcadians. But they had a daughter who could passmuster, and she took quite a shine to the 'Texas-Hoss-Man,' asthey called me. I reckon you understand now why I made thatheadquarters?--there were other reasons besides the goodpasturage."Well, the girl and her mother both could read, but I have somedoubt about the old man on that score. They took no papers, andthe nearest approach to a book in the house was an almanac threeyears old. The women folks were ravenous for something to read,and each time on my return after selling out, I'd bring them awhole bundle of illustrated papers and magazines. About my fourthreturn after more horses,--I was mighty near one of the family bythat time,--when we were all seated around the fire one night,the women poring over the papers and admiring the pictures, theold man inquired what the news was over in the parish where I hadrecently been. The only thing that I could remember was thesuicide of a prominent man. After explaining the circumstances, Iwent on to say that some little bitterness arose over his burial.Owing to his prominence it was thought permission would be givento bury him in the churchyard. But it seems there was somesuperstition about permitting a self-murderer to be buried in thesame field as decent folks. It was none of my funeral, and Ididn't pay overmuch attention to the matter, but the authoritiesrefused, and they buried him just outside the grounds, in thewoods."My host and I discussed the matter at some length. He contendedthat if the man was not of sound mind, he should have been givenhis little six feet of earth among the others. A horse salesmanhas to be a good second-rate talker, and being anxious to showoff before the girl, I differed with her father. The argumentgrew spirited yet friendly, and I appealed to the women insupporting my view. My hostess was absorbed at the time inreading a sensational account of a woman shooting her betrayer.The illustrations covered a whole page, and the girl was simplyburning, at short range, the shirt from off her seducer. The oldlady was bogged to the saddle skirts in the story, when Iinterrupted her and inquired, 'Mother, what do you think ought tobe done with a man who commits suicide?' She lowered the paperjust for an instant, and looking over her spectacles at mereplied, 'Well, I think any man who would do that ought to bemade to support the child.'"No comment was offered. Our wrangler arose and strolled away fromthe fire under the pretense of repicketing his horse. It wasnearly time for the guards to change, and giving the last watchorders to point the herd, as they left the bed-ground in themorning, back on an angle towards the trail, I prepared to turnin. While I was pulling off my boots in the act of retiring, ClayZilligan rode in from the herd to call the relief. The secondguard were bridling their horses, and as Zilligan dismounted, hesaid to the circle of listeners, "Didn't I tell you fellows thatthere was another herd just ahead of us? I don't care if theydidn't pass up the trail since we've been laying over, they arethere just the same. Of course you can't see their camp-fire fromhere, but it's in plain view from the bed-ground, and not overfour or five miles away. If I remember rightly, there's a localtrail comes in from the south of the Wichita River, and joins theChisholm just ahead. And what's more, that herd was there at nineo'clock this morning, and they haven't moved a peg since. Well,there's two lads out there waiting to be relieved, and you secondguard know where the cattle are bedded."