03 - The Log of a Cowboy: The Start

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter three of The Log of a Cowboy by Andy Adams.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The start
on the morning of April first, eighteen eighty two, our
circle dot herd started on its long tramp to the
Blackfoot Agency in Montana, with six men on each side

(00:24):
and the herd strung out for three quarters of a mile.
It could only be compared to some mythical serpent or
Chinese dragon. As it moved forward on its sinuous, snail
like course. Two riders known as point men, rode out
and well back from the lead cattle, and by riding
forward and closing in as occasion required, directed the course

(00:48):
of the herd. The main body of the herd trailed
along behind the leaders like an army in loose marching order,
guarded by outriders known as swingmen, who rode well out
from the advancing column, warding off range cattle and seeing
that none of the herd wandered away or dropped out,

(01:09):
there was no driving to do. The cattle moved on
their own free will, as in ordinary travel. Flood seldom
gave orders, but as a number of us had never
worked on the trail before, at breakfast on the morning
of our start. He gave in substance these general directions. Boys,
The secret of trailing cattle is never let your herd

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know that they are under restraint. Let everything that is
done be done voluntarily by the cattle, from the moment
you let them off the bed ground in the morning
until they are bedded at night. Never let a cow
take a step except in the direction of its destination.
In this manner, you can loaf away the day and
cover from fifteen to twenty miles, and the herd in

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the meantime will enjoy all the freedom of an open range.
Of course, it's long tiresome hours to the men, but
the condition of the herd and saddle stock demands sacrifices
on our part, if any have to be made. And
I want to caution you younger boys about your horses. There
is such a thing as having ten horses in your

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string and at the same time being afoot. You are
all well mounted, and on the condition of the ramuda
depends the success and safety of the herd. Accidents will
happen to horses, but don't let it be your fault.
Keep your saddle blankets dry and clean, for no better
word can be spoken of a man that he is

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careful of his horses. Ordinarily a man might get along
with six or eight horses, but in such emergencies as
we are liable to meet, we have not a horse
to spare, and a man afoot is useless. And as
all of us younger boys learned afterwards, there was plenty
of good, solid horse sense in floods advice, for before

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the trip ended there were men in our outfit who
were as good as a foot. While others had their
original mounts, every one fit for the saddle flood had
insisted on a good mount of horses, and Lovell was
common enough to know that what the mule is to
the army, the cow horse is to the herd. The

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first and second day out there was no incident worth mentioning.
We traveled slowly, hardly making an average day's drive. The
third morning, Flud left us to look out a crossing
on the Arroyo Colorado. On coming down to receive the herd.
We had crossed this sluggish bayou about thirty six miles

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north of Brownsville. It was a deceptive looking stream, being
over fifty feet deep and between bluff banks. We ferried
our wagon and saddle horses over swimming the loose ones.
But the herd was keeping near the coastline for the
sake of open country, and it was a question if

(04:05):
there was a ford for the wagon as near the
coast as our course was carrying us. The murmurings of
the golf had often reached our ears the day before,
and herds had been known in former years to cross
from the mainland over to Padre Island, the intervening Laguna
Madre being fordable. We were nooning when Flood returned with

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the news that it would be impossible to cross our
wagons at any point on the bayou, and that we
would have to ford around the mouth of the stream
where the fresh and salt water meet in the laguna
there had formed the delta or shallow bar, and by
following its contour we would not have over twelve to
fourteen inches of water, though the half circle was nearly

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two miles in length. As we would barely have time
to cross that day, the herd was at once started
veering for the mouth of the Arroyo Colorado. On reaching
it about the middle of the afternoon, the foreman led
the way. Having crossed in the morning and learned the ford.
The wagon followed. The saddle horses came next, while the

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herd brought up the rear. It proved good footing on
the sand bar, but the water in the laguna was
too salty for the cattle, though the loose horses lay
down and wallowed in it. We were about an hour
in crossing, and on reaching the mainland, met of a
cairo who directed us to a large fresh water lake
a few miles inland, where we camped for the night.

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It proved an ideal camp, with wood, water and grass
in abundance, and very little rain stock to annoy us.
We had watered the herd just before noon, and before
throwing them upon the bed ground for the night, watered
them a second time. We had a splendid camp fire
that night of dry live oak logs, and after supper

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was over and the first guard had taken the heard
smoking and story telling were the order of the evening.
The camp fire is to all outdoor life what the
evening fireside is to domestic life. After the labors of
the days are over, the men gather around the fire,
and the social hour of the day is spent in yarning.

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The stories told may run from the sublime to the ridiculous,
from a true incident to a base fabrication, from a
touching bit of pathos to the most vulgar vulgarity. Have
I ever told this outfit my experience with the vigilantes.
When I was a kid inquired bull durum, there was

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a general negative response, and he proceeded well. Our folks
were living on the Frio at the time, and there
was a man in our neighborhood who had an outfit
of four men out beyond Noyes's Canyon hunting wild cattle
for their hides. It was necessary to take them out
supplies about every so often, and on one trip he

(07:00):
begged my folks to let me go along for company.
I was a slim slip of a colt about fourteen
at the time, and as this man was a friend
of ours, my folks consented to let me go along.
We each had a good saddle horse and two pack mules,
with provisions and ammunition for the hunting camp. The first

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night we made camp, a boy overtook us with the
news that the brother of my companion had been accidentally
killed by a horse, and of course he would have
to return well, we were twenty miles on our way,
and it would take some little time to go back
and return with the loaded mules. I volunteered, like a
fool kid, to go on and take the packs through.

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The only question was could I pack and unpack? I
had helped him at this work double handed, but now
that I was to try it alone, he showed me
what he called a squaw hitch, with which you can
lash a pack single handed. After putting me through it
once or twice and satisfying himself that I could do

(08:05):
the packing, he consented to let me go on. He
and the messenger returning home during the night. The next morning,
I packed without any trouble and started on my way.
It would take me two days yet, poking along with
heavy packs to reach the hunters. Well, I hadn't made
over eight or ten miles that first morning, when as

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I rounded a turn in the trail, a man stepped
out from behind a rock, threw a gun in my
face and ordered me to hold up my hands. Then
another appeared from the opposite side with his gun leveled
on me. Inside half a minute, a dozen men galloped
up from every quarter, all armed to the teeth. The
man on leaving, had given me his gun for company,

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one of these old smoke pole cap and ball six shooters.
But I must have forgotten what guns were for, for
I elevated my hands nicely. The leader of the party
questioned me as to who I was, and what I
was doing there, and what I had in those packs.
That once at least I told the truth, every mother's

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son of them was cursing and cross questioning me in
the same breath. They ordered me off my horse, took
my gun and proceeded to verify my tale by unpacking
the mules. So much ammunition aroused their suspicion, But my
story was as good as it was true, and they
never shook me from the truth of it. I soon

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learned that robbery was not their motive, and the leader
explained the situation. The Vigilance Committee had been in force
in that county for some time, trying to rid the
county of lawless characters. But lawlessness got into the saddle
and had bench warrants issued and served on every member
of this vigilance committee. Has the vigilantes numbered several hundred,

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there was no jail large enough enough to hold such
a number, so they were released on parole for appearance
at court. When court met, every man served with a capias,
hold on, hold your horses just a minute, interrupted quince forrest.
I want to get that word. I want to make
a memorandum of it, for I may want to use

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it myself some time. Capius, Now I have it. Go ahead.
When court met, every man served with a bench. Warrant
from the judge presiding was present, and as soon as
court was called order, a squad of men arose in
the court room, and the next moment the judge fell
riddled with lead. Then the factions scattered to fight it out,

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and I was passing through the county while matters were active.
They confiscated my gun and all the ammunition in the packs,
but helped me to repack and start at me on
my way. A happy thought struck one of the men
to give me a letter which would carry me through
without further trouble. But the leader stopped him, saying, let

(11:02):
the boy alone. Your letter would hang him as sure
as hell's hot. Before he went ten miles farther. I
declined the letter. Even then I didn't have sense enough
to turn back, and inside of two hours I was
rounded up by the other faction. I had learned my
story perfectly by this time, and those packs had to
come off again for everything to be examined. There was

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nothing in them now but flower and salt and such things,
nothing that they might consider suspicious. One fellow in this
second party took a fancy to my horse and offered
to help hang me on general principles, but kinder counsels prevailed.
They also helped me to repack, and I started on
once more. But before I reached my destination the following evening,

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I was held up seven different times. I got so
used to it that I was happily disappointed every shelter
I passed if some man did not step out and
throw a gun in my face. I had trouble to
convince the cattle hunters of my experiences, but the absence
of any ammunition, which they needed worst at last, led

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them to give credit to my tale. I was expected
home within a week, as I was to go down
on the oasis on a cow hunt which was making up,
and I only rested one day at the hunter's camp.
On their advice, I took a different route on my
way home, leaving the mules behind me. I never saw

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a man. The next day returning and was feeling quite
galla on my good fortune. When evening came on, I
sighted a little ranch house some distance off the trail,
and concluded to ride to it and stay over night.
As I approached, I saw that some one lived there,
as there were chickens and dogs about, but not a

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person in sight. I dismounted and knocked on the door, when,
without a word, the door was thrown wide open and
a half a dozen guns were poked into my face.
I was ordered into the house and given a chance
to tell my story again. Whether my story was true
or not, they took no chances on me, but kept
me all night. One of the men took my horse

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to the stable and cared for him, and I was
well fed and given a place to sleep. But not
a man offered a word of explanation, from which I
took it. They did not belong to the vigilance faction.
When it came time to go to bed, one man
said to me, now, sonny, don't make any attempt to
get away, and don't move out of your bed without

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warning us, for you'll be shot as sure as you do.
We won't harm a hair on your head. If you're
telling us the truth, only do as you're told, for
we'll watch you. By this time I had learned to
obey orders while in that county and got a fair
night sleep, though there were men going and coming all night.
The next morning I was given my breakfast. My horse,

(14:00):
well cuffed and saddled, was brought to the door, and
with this parting advice, I was giving permission to go. Son.
If you've told us the truth, don't look back when
you ride away. You'll be watched for the first ten
miles after leaving here. And if you've lied to us,
it will go hard with you. Now remember don't look back,

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for these are times when no one cares to be identified.
I never questioned that man's advice. It was die dog
or eat the hatchet with me. I mounted my horse,
waved the usual parting courtesies, and rode away. As I
turned into the trail about a quarter of mile from
the house, I noticed two men ride out from behind

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the stable and follow me. I remembered the story about
Lot's wife looking back, though it was led and not
miracles that I was afraid of. That morning, for the
first hour I could hear the men talking, and the
hoof beats of their horses. As said, I rode along,
always the same distance behind me. After about two hours

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of this one sided joke, as I rode over a
little hill, I looked out of the corner of my
eye back at my escort, still about a quarter of
a mile behind me. One of them noticed me and
raised his gun, but I instantly changed my view, and
the moment the hill hid me put spurs to my horse,
so that when they reached the brow of the hill,

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I was half a mile in the lead, burning the
earth like a caned dog. They threw lead close around me,
but my horse lengthened the distance between us for the
next five miles, when they dropped entirely out of sight.
By noon, I came into the old stage road, and
by the middle of the afternoon reached home after over

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sixty miles in the saddle without a halt. Just at
the conclusion of Bull's story, Flood rode in from the herd, and,
after pickinging his horse, joined the circle. In reply to
an inquiry from one of the boys as to how
the cattle were resting, he replied, the herd is breaking
into the trail life nicely. If we'll just be careful

(16:09):
with them now for the first month, and no bad
storms strike us in the night, we may never have
a run the entire trip. That last drink of water
they had this evening gave them a night cap that'll
last them until morning. No, there's no danger of any
trouble to night. For fully an hour after the return

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of our foreman, we lounged around the fire, during which
time there was a full and free discussion of stampedes.
But finally Flood, suiting the action to the word by
a rising, suggested that all hands hunt their blankets and
turn in for the night. A quiet wink from Bull
to several of the boys held us for the time being,

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and innocently, turning to Forrest, Durham inquired, where was when
was was it you that was telling some one about
a run you were in last summer? I never heard
you tell it. Where was it you mean on the
cimmarin last year when we mixed two herds, said Quince,
who had taken the bait like a bass and was

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now fully embarked on a yarn. We were in rather
close quarters, herds ahead and behind us, when one night
here came a cow herd like a cyclone and swept
right through our camp. We tumbled out of our blankets
and ran for our horses, but before we could, Bridle
Bull had given us the wink, and every man in

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the outfit fell back, and the snoring that checked the
story teller was like a chorus of rip saws running
through pine knots. Forrest took in the situation at a glance,
and as he arose to leave, looked back and remarked,
you must all think that's smart. Before he was out
of hearing, Durham said to the rest of us, a

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few doses like that will cure him of sucking eggs
and acting smart, interrupting folks. End of chapter three