Chapter XVI. Crossing the Niobrara

by Andy Adams

　　The parting of the ways was reached. On the morning of July 12,the different outfits in charge of Lovell's drive in '84 startedon three angles of the compass for their final destination. TheRosebud Agency, where Flood's herd was to be delivered onSeptember 1, lay to the northeast in Dakota. The route was notdirect, and the herd would be forced to make quite an elbow,touching on the different forks of the Loup in order to securewater. The Rebel and my brother would follow up on the south sideof the North Platte until near old Fort Laramie, when theirroutes would separate, the latter turning north for Montana,while Priest would continue along the same watercourse to withina short distance of his destination. The Buford herds wouldstrike due north from the first tributary putting in from above,which we would intercept the second morning out.An early start was the order of the day. My beeves were pushedfrom the bed-ground with the first sign of dawn, and when therelief overtook them, they were several miles back from the riverand holding a northwest course. My camp being the lowest one onthe North Fork, Forrest and Sponsilier, also starting atdaybreak, naturally took the lead, the latter having fully afive-mile start over my outfit. But as we left the valley andcame up on the mesa, there on an angle in our front, Flood's herdsnailed along like an army brigade, anxious to dispute ouradvance. The point-men veered our cattle slightly to the left,and as the drag-end of Flood's beeves passed before us, standingin our stirrups we waved our hats in farewell to the lads,starting on their last tack for the Rosebud Agency. Across theriver were the dim outlines of two herds trailing upstream, beingdistinguishable from numerous others by the dust-clouds whichmarked the moving from the grazing cattle. The course of theNorth Platte was southwest, and on the direction which we wereholding, we would strike the river again during the afternoon ata bend some ten or twelve miles above.Near the middle of the forenoon we were met by Hugh Morris. Hewas discouraged, as it was well known now that his cattle wouldbe tendered in competition with ours at Fort Buford. There was nocomparison between the beeves, ours being much larger, moreuniform in weight, and in better flesh. He looked over bothForrest's and Sponsilier's herds before meeting us, and was goodenough judge of cattle to know that his stood no chance againstours, if they were to be received on their merits. We talkedmatters over for fully an hour, and I advised him never to leaveKeith County until the last dollar in payment for his beeves wasin hand. Morris thought this was quite possible, as informationhad reached him that the buyers had recently purchased a remuda,and now, since they had failed to take possession of two ofLovell's herds, it remained to be seen what the next move wouldbe. He thought it quite likely, though, that a settlement couldbe effected whereby he would be relieved at Ogalalla. Mutuallyhoping that all would turn out well, we parted until our pathsshould cross again.We intercepted the North Fork again during the afternoon,watering from it for the last time, and the next morning struckthe Blue River, the expected tributary. Sponsilier maintained hisposition in the lead, but I was certain when we reached thesource of the Blue, David would fall to the rear, as thenceforththere was neither trail nor trace, map nor compass. The yearbefore, Forrest and I had been over the route to the Pine RidgeAgency, and one or the other of us must take the lead across adry country between the present stream and tributaries of theNiobrara. The Blue possessed the attributes of a river in nameonly, and the third day up it, Sponsilier crossed the tributaryto allow either Forrest or myself to take the lead. Quinceprofessed a remarkable ignorance and faulty memory as to thetopography of the country between the Blue and Niobrara, andthrew bouquets at me regarding my ability always to find water.It is true that I had gone and returned across this arid belt theyear before, but on the back trip it was late in the fall, and wewere making forty miles a day with nothing but a wagon andremuda, water being the least of my troubles. But a compromisewas effected whereby we would both ride out the country anew,leaving the herds to lie over on the head waters of the BlueRiver. There were several shallow lakes in the interveningcountry, and on finding the first one sufficient to our needs,the herds were brought up, and we scouted again in advance. Theabundance of antelope was accepted as an assurance of water, andon recognizing certain landmarks, I agreed to take the leadthereafter, and we turned back. The seventh day out from theBlue, the Box Buttes were sighted, at the foot of which ran acreek by the same name, and an affluent of the Niobrara. Contraryto expectations, water was even more plentiful than the yearbefore, and we grazed nearly the entire distance. The antelopewere unusually tame; with six-shooters we killed quite a numberby flagging, or using a gentle horse for a blind, driving theanimal forward with the bridle reins, tacking frequently, andallowing him to graze up within pistol range.The Niobrara was a fine grazing country. Since we had over twomonths at our disposal, after leaving the North Platte, everyadvantage was given the cattle to round into form. Ten miles wasa day's move, and the different outfits kept in close touch witheach other. We had planned a picnic for the crossing of theNiobrara, and on reaching that stream during the afternoon,Sponsilier and myself crossed, camping a mile apart, Forrestremaining on the south side. Wild raspberries had been extremelyplentiful, and every wagon had gathered a quantity sufficient tomake a pie for each man. The cooks had mutually agreed to meet atSponsilier's wagon and do the baking, and every man not on herdwas present in expectation of the coming banquet. One ofForrest's boys had a fiddle, and bringing it along, thefestivities opened with a stag dance, the "ladies" beingdesignated by wearing a horse-hobble loosely around their necks.While the pies were baking, a slow process with Dutch ovens, Isat on the wagon-tongue and played the violin by the hour. A rudeimitation of the gentler sex, as we had witnessed in dance-hallsin Dodge and Ogalalla, was reproduced with open shirt fronts, andamorous advances by the sterner one.The dancing ceased the moment the banquet was ready. The cookshad experienced considerable trouble in restraining some of theboys from the too free exercise of what they looked upon as theinalienable right of man to eat his pie when, where, and how itbest pleased him. But Sponsilier, as host, stood behind theculinary trio, and overawed the impetuous guests. The repastbarely concluded in time for the wranglers and first guard fromForrest's and my outfit to reach camp, catch night-horses, bedthe cattle, and excuse the herders, as supper was served only atthe one wagon. The relieved ones, like eleventh-hour guests, cametearing in after darkness, and the tempting spread soon absorbedthem. As the evening wore on, the loungers gathered in severalcircles, and the raconteur held sway. The fact that we were in acountry in which game abounded suggested numerous stories. Thedelights of cat-hunting by night found an enthusiast in each onepresent. Every dog in our memory, back to early boyhood, wasproperly introduced and his best qualities applauded. Not onlycat-hounds but coon-dogs had a respectful hearing."I remember a hound," said Forrest's wrangler, "which I ownedwhen a boy back in Virginia. My folks lived in the foot-hills ofthe Blue Ridge Mountains in that state. We were just as poor asour poorest neighbors. But if there was any one thing that thatsection was rich in it was dogs, principally hounds. This dog ofmine was four years old when I left home to go to Texas. Finehound, swallow marked, and when he opened on a scent you couldalways tell what it was that he was running. I never allowed himto run with packs, but generally used him in treeing coon, whichpestered the cornfields during roasting-ear season and in thefall. Well, after I had been out in Texas about five years, Iconcluded to go back on a little visit to the old folks. Therewere no railroads within twenty miles of my home, and I had tohoof it that distance, so I arrived after dark. Of course myreturn was a great surprise to my folks, and we sat up latetelling stories about things out West. I had worked with cattleall the time, and had made one trip over the trail from CollinCounty to Abilene, Kansas."My folks questioned me so fast that they gave me no show to makeany inquiries in return, but I finally eased one in and askedabout my dog Keiser, and was tickled to hear that he was stillliving. I went out and called him, but he failed to show up, whenmother explained his absence by saying that he often went outhunting alone now, since there was none of us boys at home tohunt with him. They told me that he was no account any longer;that he had grown old and gray, and father said he was too slowon trail to be of any use. I noticed that it was a nice dampnight, and if my old dog had been there, I think I'd have taken acircle around the fields in the hope of hearing him sing oncemore. Well, we went back into the house, and after talking awhilelonger, I climbed into the loft and went to bed. I didn't sleepvery sound that night, and awakened several times. About an hourbefore daybreak, I awoke suddenly and imagined I heard a houndbaying faintly in the distance. Finally I got up and opened theboard window in the gable and listened. Say, boys, I knew thathound's baying as well as I know my own saddle. It was oldKeiser, and he had something treed about a mile from the house,across a ridge over in some slashes. I slipped on my clothes,crept downstairs, and taking my old man's rifle out of the rack,started to him."It was as dark as a stack of black cats, but I knew every pathand byway by heart. I followed the fields as far as I could, andlater, taking into the timber, I had to go around a long swamp.An old beaver dam had once crossed the outlet of this marsh, andonce I gained it, I gave a long yell to let the dog know thatsome one was coming. He answered me, and quite a little whilebefore day broke I reached him. Did he know me? Why, he knew meas easy as the little boy knew his pap. Right now, I can'tremember any simple thing in my whole life that moved me just asthat little reunion of me and my dog, there in those woods thatmorning. Why, he howled with delight. He licked my face and handsand stood up on me with his wet feet and said just as plain as hecould that he was glad to see me again. And I was glad to meethim, even though he did make me feel as mellow as a girl over ababy."Well, when daybreak came, I shot a nice big fat Mr. Zip Coon outof an old pin-oak, and we started for home like old pardners. Oldas he was, he played like a puppy around me, and when we came insight of the house, he ran on ahead and told the folks what hehad found. Yes, you bet he told them. He came near clawing allthe clothing off them in his delight. That's one reason I alwayslike a dog and a poor man--you can't question their friendship."A circus was in progress on the other side of the wagon. From alarge rock, Jake Blair was announcing the various acts andintroducing the actors and actresses. Runt Pickett, wearing askirt made out of a blanket and belted with a hobble, won theadmiration of all as the only living lady lion-tamer. Resumingcomfortable positions on our side of the commissary, a lad namedWaterwall, one of Sponsilier's boys, took up the broken threadwhere Forrest's wrangler had left off."The greatest dog-man I ever knew," said he, "lived on theGuadalupe River. His name was Dave Hapfinger, and he had theloveliest vagabond temperament of any man I ever saw. It matterednothing what he was doing, all you had to do was to give old Davea hint that you knew where there was fish to be caught, or abee-course to hunt, and he would stop the plow and go with youfor a week if necessary. He loved hounds better than any man Iever knew. You couldn't confer greater favor than to give him apromising hound pup, or, seeking the same, ask for one of hisraising. And he was such a good fellow. If any one was sick inthe neighborhood, Uncle Dave always had time to kill them asquirrel every day; and he could make a broth for a baby, or frya young squirrel, in a manner that would make a sick man's mouthwater."When I was a boy, I've laid around many a camp-fire this way andlistened to old Dave tell stories. He was quite a humorist in hisway, and possessed a wonderful memory. He could tell you the dayof the month, thirty years before, when he went to mill one timeand found a peculiar bird's nest on the way. Colonel Andrews,owner of several large plantations, didn't like Dave, andthreatened to prosecute him once for cutting a bee-tree on hisland. If the evidence had been strong enough, I reckon theColonel would. No doubt Uncle Dave was guilty, but mere suspicionisn't sufficient proof."Colonel Andrews was a haughty old fellow, blue-blooded and proudas a peacock, and about the only way Dave could get even with himwas in his own mild, humorous way. One day at dinner at aneighboring log-rolling, when all danger of prosecution forcutting the bee-tree had passed, Uncle Dave told of a recentdream of his, a pure invention. 'I dreamt,' said he, 'thatColonel Andrews died and went to heaven. There was an unusuallybig commotion at St. Peter's gate on his arrival. A troop ofangels greeted him, still the Colonel seemed displeased at hisreception. But the welcoming hosts humored him forward, and onnearing the throne, the Almighty, recognizing the distinguishedarrival, vacated the throne and came down to greet the Colonelpersonally. At this mark of appreciation, he relaxed a trifle,and when the Almighty insisted that he should take the throneseat, Colonel Andrews actually smiled for the first time on earthor in heaven.'"Uncle Dave told this story so often that he actually believed ithimself. But finally a wag friend of Colonel Andrews told of adream which he had had about old Dave, which the latter hugelyenjoyed. According to this second vagary, the old vagabond hadalso died and gone to heaven. There was some trouble at St.Peter's gate, as they refused to admit dogs, and Uncle Davealways had a troop of hounds at his heels. When he found that itwas useless to argue the matter, he finally yielded the point andleft the pack outside. Once inside the gate he stopped,bewildered at the scene before him. But after waiting inside somelittle time unnoticed, he turned and was on the point of askingthe gate-keeper to let him out, when an angel approached andasked him to stay. There was some doubt in Dave's mind if hewould like the place, but the messenger urged that he remain andat least look the city over. The old hunter goodnaturedlyconsented, and as they started up one of the golden streets UncleDave recognized an old friend who had once given him a hound pup.Excusing himself to the angel, he rushed over to his formerearthly friend and greeted him with warmth and cordiality. Thetwo old cronies talked and talked about the things below, andfinally Uncle Dave asked if there was any hunting up there. Thereply was disappointing."Meanwhile the angel kept urging Uncle Dave forward to salute thethrone. But he loitered along, meeting former huntingacquaintances, and stopping with each for a social chat. Whenthey finally neared the throne, the patience of the angel wasnearly exhausted; and as old Dave looked up and saw ColonelAndrews occupying the throne, he rebelled and refused to salute,when the angel wrathfully led him back to the gate and kicked himout among his dogs."Jack Splann told a yarn about the friendship of a pet lamb anddog which he owned when a boy. It was so unreasonable that he wasinterrupted on nearly every assertion. Long before he hadfinished, Sponsilier checked his narrative and informed him thatif he insisted on doling out fiction he must have someconsideration for his listeners, and at least tell it withinreason. Splann stopped right there and refused to conclude hisstory, though no one but myself seemed to regret it. I had a trueincident about a dog which I expected to tell, but the audiencehad become too critical, and I kept quiet. As it was evident thatno more dog stories would be told, the conversation was allowedto drift at will. The recent shooting on the North Platte hadbeen witnessed by nearly every one present, and was suggestive ofother scenes."I have always contended," said Dorg Seay, "that the man who cancontrol his temper always shoots the truest. You take one ofthese fellows that can smile and shoot at the same time--they arethe boys that I want to stand in with. But speaking of losing thetemper, did any of you ever see a woman real angry,--not merelycross, but the tigress in her raging and thirsting to tear youlimb from limb? I did only once, but I have never forgotten theoccasion. In supreme anger the only superior to this woman I everwitnessed was Captain Cartwright when he shot the slayer of hisonly son. He was as cool as a cucumber, as his only shot proved,but years afterward when he told me of the incident, he lost allcontrol of himself, and fire flashed from his eyes like from themuzzle of a six-shooter. 'Dorg,' said he, unconsciously shakingme like a terrier does a rat, his blazing eyes not a foot from myface, 'Dorg, when I shot that cowardly --- ---- --- ---, I didn'tmiss the centre of his forehead the width of my thumb nail.'"But this woman defied a throng of men. Quite a few of the crowdhad assisted the night before in lynching her husband, and thismeeting occurred at the burying-ground the next afternoon. Thewoman's husband was a well-known horse-thief, a dissolute,dangerous character, and had been warned to leave the community.He lived in a little village, and after darkness the eveningbefore, had crept up to a window and shot a man sitting at thesupper-table with his family. The murderer had harbored a grudgeagainst his victim, had made threats, and before he could escape,was caught red-handed with the freshly fired pistol in his hand.The evidence of guilt was beyond question, and a vigilancecommittee didn't waste any time in hanging him to the nearesttree."The burying took place the next afternoon. The murdered man wasa popular citizen, and the village and country turned out to paytheir last respects. But when the services were over, a number ofus lingered behind, as it was understood that the slayer as wellas his victim would be interred in the same grounds. A secondgrave had been prepared, and within an hour a wagon containing awoman, three small children, and several Mexicans drove up to therear side of the inclosure. There was no mistaking the party, thecoffin was carried in to the open grave, when every one presentwent over to offer friendly services. But as we neared the littlegroup the woman picked up a shovel and charged on us like atigress. I never saw such an expression of mingled anger andanguish in a human countenance as was pictured in that woman'sface. We shrank from her as if she had been a lioness, and whenat last she found her tongue, every word cut like a lash. Lividwith rage, the spittle frothing from her mouth, she drove usaway, saying:"'Oh, you fiends of hell, when did I ask your help? Like the cursyou are, you would lick up the blood of your victim! Had you beenfriends to me or mine, why did you not raise your voice inprotest when they were strangling the life out of the father ofmy children? Away, you cowardly hounds! I've hired a few Mexicansto help me, and I want none of your sympathy in this hour. Was ityour hand that cut him down from the tree this morning, and if itwas not, why do I need you now? Is my shame not enough in youreyes but that you must taunt me further? Do my innocent childrenwant to look upon the faces of those who robbed them of a father?If there is a spark of manhood left in one of you, show it byleaving me alone! And you other scum, never fear but that youwill clutter hell in reward for last night's work. Begone, andleave me with my dead!'"The circus had ended. The lateness of the hour was unobserved byany one until John Levering asked me if he should bring in myhorse. It lacked less than half an hour until the guards shouldchange, and it was high time our outfit was riding for camp. Theinnate modesty of my wrangler, in calling attention to the time,was not forgotten, but instead of permitting him to turn servant,I asked him to help our cook look after his utensils. On myreturn to the wagon, Parent was trying to quiet a nervous horseso as to allow him to carry the Dutch oven returning. But asLevering was in the act of handing up the heavy oven, one ofForrest's men, hoping to make the animal buck, attempted to placea briar stem under the horse's tail. Sponsilier detected themovement in time to stop it, and turning to the culprit, said:"None of that, my bully boy. I have no objection to killing acheap cow-hand, but these cooks have won me, hands down. If everI run across a girl who can make as good pies as we had forsupper, she can win the affections of my young and trustingheart."