09 - The Log of a Cowboy: Doan's Crossing

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter nine of The Log of a Cowboy by Andy Adams.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Domes crossing
it was a nice open country between the Wichita and
Peas rivers. On reaching the latter we found an easy
stage of water for crossing, though there was every evidence

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that the river had been on a recent rise, the
debris of a late freshet littering the cut bank, while
high water mark could be easily noticed on the trees
along the river bottom. Summer had advanced until the June
freshets were to be expected, and for the next month
we should be fortunate if our advance was not checked

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by floods and falling weather. The fortunate stage of the
Peas encouraged us, however, to hope that possibly Red River,
two days drive ahead, would be fordable the day on
which we expected to reach it floods set out early
to look up the ford, which had then been in
use but a few years, and which in later days

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was known as stones Crossing on Red River. Our foremant
returned before noon and reported a favorable stage of water
for the herd, and a new ferry that had been
established for wagons. With this good news. We were determined
to put that river behind us in as few hours
as possible, for it was a common occurrence that a

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river which was fordable at night was the reverse by daybreak.
Makan was sent ahead with the wagon, but we held
the saddle horses with us to serve as leaders in
taking the water. At the ford, the cattle were strung
out in trailing manor nearly a mile, and on reaching
the river near the middle of the afternoon, we took

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the water without a halt or even a change of horses.
This boundary river on the northern border of Texas was
a terror to trail drovers, but on our reaching it,
it had shallowed down the flow of water, following several
small channels. One of these was swimming, with shallow bars
intervening between the channels. But the majestic grandeur of the

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river was apparent on every hand, with its red bluff banks,
the sediment of its red waters marking the timber along
its course, while the driftwood launched in trees and high
on the banks indicated what might be expected when she
became sportive or angry. That she was merciless was evident,

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for although this crossing had been in use only a
year or two when we forded. Yet five graves, one
of which which was less than ten days made, attested
her disregard for human life. It can be safely asserted
that at this and lower trail crossings on Red River
the lives of more trailmen were lost by drowning than

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on all other rivers together. Just as we were nearing
the river, an unknown horseman from the south overtook our herd.
It was evident that he belonged to some through herd
and was looking out the crossing. He made himself useful
by lending a hand while our herd was fording, and
in a brief conversation with Flood, informed him that he

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was one of the hands with a running w herd,
gave the name of Bill Mann as their foreman, the
number of cattle they were driving, and reported the herd
as due to reach the river the next morning. He
wasted little time with us, but recrossed the river, returning
to his herd, while we grazed out four or five
miles and camped for the night. I shall never forget

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the impression left in my mind of that first morning
after we crossed Red River into the Indian lands. The
country was as primitive as in the first day of
its creation. The trail led up a divide between the
salt and north forks of the Red River. To the
eastward of the latter stream lay the reservation of the Apaches, Caiawa's,

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and Comanches, the latter having been a terror to the
inhabitants of we eastern Texas. They were a warlike tribe,
as the records of Texas rangers and government troops will verify,
but their last effective dressing down was given them in
a fight at Adobe Walls by a party of buffalo hunters,
whom they hoped to surprise. As we wormed our way

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up this narrow divide, there was revealed to us a
panorama of green swarded plain and timber fringed water course,
with not a visible evidence that it had ever been
invaded by civilized men, save cattlemen with their herds. Antelope
came up in bands and gratified their curiosity as to

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who these invaders might be, while old solitary buffalo bulls
turned tail at our approach and lumbered away to points
of safety. Very few herds have ever passed over this
route but buffalo trails leading down stream, deep worn by
generations of travel, were to be seen by hundreds. On
every hand. We were not there for a ch range

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of scenery or for our health, so we may have
overlooked some of the beauties of the landscape, but we
had a keen eye for the things of our craft.
We could see almost back to the river, and several
times that morning noticed clouds of dust on the horizon.
Flood noticed them first. After some time, the dust clouds
arose clear and distinct, and we were satisfied that the

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running w herd had forded it and were behind us,
not more than ten or twelve miles away. At dinner
that noon, Flood said he had a notion to go
back and pay Man a visit. Why I've not seen
little foot, bill Mann, said our foreman, as he helped
himself to a third piece of fried chicken bacon. Since

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we separated two years ago up at Ogalala on the platte,
I just liked the best in the world to drop
back and sleep in his blankets one night and complain
of his chuck. Then I'd like to tell him how
we had passed them. Starting ten days drives farther south.
He must have been among those hers laying over on
the brazos. Why don't you go, then, said fox quarter Knight.

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Half the outfit could hold the cattle now, with the
grass and water were in at present, I'll go you
one for luck, said our foreman wrangler. Rustle in your
horses the minute you're through eating, I'm going visiting. We
all knew what Horsey would ride, And when he dropped
his rope on Alazanito, he had not only picked his

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own mount of twelve, but the top horse of the
entire Ramuda, a chestnut sorrel fifteen hands and an inch
in height, that drew his first breath on the prairies
of Texas. No man who sat him once could ever
forget him. Now, when the trail is a lost occupation,
and reverie and reminiscence carry the mine back to that day,

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there are friends and faces that may be forgotten, but
there are horses that never will be. There were emergencies
in which the horse was everything, his rider merely the accessory.
But together man and horse they were the force that
made it possible to move the millions of cattle which
passed up and over the various trails of the west.

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When we had caught our horses for the afternoon and
flood had saddled and was ready to start, he said
to us, you, fellows, just mosey along up the trail.
I'll not be gone long, but when I get back,
I shall expect to find everything running smooth. An outfit
that can't run itself without a boss ought to stay
at home and do the milking. So long, fellows. The

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country was well watered, and when rounded the cattle into
bed ground that night, they were actually suffering from stomachs
gorged with grass and water. They went down into sleep
like tired children. One man could have held them. That
night we all felt good, and Ma cann got up
an extra spread for supper. We even had dried apples

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for dessert. Mc cann had talked the store keyper at Dones,
where we got our last supplies, out of some extras
as a payloon. Among them was a can of jam.
He sprung this on us as a surprise. Bob Blades
toyed with the empty can in mingled admiration and discussed
over a picture on the paper label. It was a

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supper scene, every figure wearing full dress. Now that's general,
Grant said, he pointing with his finger, and this is
tom Oqutree. I can't quite make out this other duck,
but I reckon he's some big auger, a senator or governor.
Maybe them old girls have got their gall with them.
That style of dress is what you call lo and

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behold the whole passel ought to be ashamed, and they
seemed to be enjoying themselves too. Though. It was a
lovely summer night. We had a fire and supper over
the conversation ranged wide and free. As the wagon on
the trail is home, naturally, the fire is the hearthstone,
so we gathered and lounged around it. The only way

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to enjoy such a fine night, as this remarked Nash,
is to sit up smoking until you fall asleep with
your boots on. Between too much sleep and just enough,
there's a happy medium, which suits me. Officer inquired Wyatt roundtree,
trailing into the conversation very innocently. Why is it that
people who live among those Yankees always say be the

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remainder of their lives? What's the matter with the word,
countered officer, Oh, nothing, I reckon, only it sounds a
little odd, and there's a tale to it. A story,
you mean, said officer, reprovingly. Well, i'll tell it to you,
said roundtree, and then you can call it to suit yourself.
It was out in New Mexico where this happened. There

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was a fellow drifted into the ranch where I was working,
dead broke. To make matters worse, he could do nothing,
He wouldn't fit anywhere. Still, he was a nice fellow,
and we all liked him. Must have had a good education,
for he had good letters from people up north. He
had worked in stores and had once clerked in a bank,
at least the letter said. So well, we put up

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a job to get him a place in a little
town out on the railroad. You know how clannish Kentuckians are.
Let two meet who never saw each other before, and
inside half an hour they'll be chewing tobacco from the
same plug and trying to loan each other money. That's
just like them, interposed Fox quarter Night. Well, there was

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an old man lived in this town who was the
genuine blend of bluegrass and bourbon. If another Kentuckian came
within twenty miles of him, and he found it out,
he'd hunt him up and they'd hold a two handed reunion.
We put up the job that this young man should
play that he was a Kentuckian, hoping that the old
man would take him to his bosom and give him

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something to do. So he took him into town one day,
coached and fully posted how to act and play his part.
We met the old man in front of place of business,
and after the usual comments on the news over our way,
whether and other small talk, we were on the point
of passing on when one of our crowd turned back
and inquired, Uncle Henry, have you met that young Kentuckian

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who's in the country. No, said the old man, brightening
with interest. Who is he and where is he? He's
in town somewhere, volunteered one of the boys. We pretended
to survey the street from where we stood. When one
of the boys blurted out, yonder he stands now that
fellow in front of the drug store over there with
a hard boiled hat on. The old man started for him,

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angling across the street in disregard of sidewalks. We watched
the meeting, thinking it was working all right. We were mistaken.
We saw them shake hands and when the old man
turned and walked away very haughtily. Something had gone wrong.
He took the sidewalk on his return, and when he
came near enough to us, we could see that he
was angry and on the prod. When he came near

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enough to speak, he said, you think you're smart, don't you?
He's a Kentuckian? Is he? Hell's full of such Kentuckians.
As he passed beyond hearing, he was muttering in perceptions
on us. The young fellow joined us a minute later
with a question, what kind of crank is that you
ran me up against? He's as nice a man as

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there is in the country, said one of the crowd.
What did you say to him? Nothing. He came up
to me, extended his hand, saying, my young friend, I
understand that you're from Kentucky. I D sir, I replied.
When he looked me in the eyes and said, you're
a g D liar and turned and walked away. Why

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he must have wanted to insult me, And then we
all knew why our little scheme had failed. There was
food and raiment in it for him, but he would
use that little word be Did any of you notice
my saddle horse lie down just after we crossed this
last creek the afternoon, inquired Rod Wheat. No, what made

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him lie down, asked several of the boys. Oh, we
just found a gopher hole and stuck his fore feet
into it one at a time, and then tried to
pull them both out at once. When they couldn't do it,
he simply shut his eyes like a dying sheep and
lay down. Then you've seen sheep die, said the horse wrangler.
Of course I have a sheep can die any time

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he makes up his mind to by simply shutting both eyes,
then he's a goner. Quince Forrest, who had brought in
his horse to go out with a second watch, he
and Bob Blade's havn't taken advantage of the foreman's absent
to change places on guard for the night, had been
listening to the latter part of Wyatt's yarn very attentively.
We all hoped that he would mount and ride out

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to the herd. For though he was a good story
teller and meety with personal experiences where he thought they
would pass muster, he was inclined to overcolor his statements.
We usually gave him respectful attention, but were frequently compelled
to regard him as a cheerful, harmless liar. So when
he showed no disposition to go, we knew we were

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in for one from him. When I was a boss
bull walker, he began for a big army Sutler and
Fort Concho. I used to make two round trips a
month with my train. It was a hundred miles to
wagon from the freight point where we got our supplies.
I had ten teams, six and seven yoke to the

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team and trail wagons to each. I was furnished a
night herder and a cook, saddle horses for both night
herder and myself. You hear me. It was a slam
up fine layout. We could handle three or four tons
to the team, and with the whole train we could
chamber two car loads of anything. One day we were

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nearing the fort with a mixed cargo of freight when
a messenger came out and met us with an order
from the Sutler. He wanted us to make the fort
that night and unload. The mail board had reported us
to the Suttler has camped out back on a little
creek about ten miles. We were always entitled to a
day to unload and drive back to camp, which gave

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us good grass for the oxen. But under the orders,
the whips popped merrily that afternoon, and when they all
got well strung out, I rode in ahead to see
what was up. Well, it seems that four companies of
infantry from Fort mc cavett, which were out for field practice,
were going to be brought into this post to be
paid three months wages. This, with the troops stationed at Concho,

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would turn loose quite a wad of money. The sutler
called me into his office when I reached the fort,
and when he had produced a black bottle used for
cutting the alkali in your drinking water, he said, Jack.
He called me Jack. My full name is John Quincy Forrest. Jack.
Can you make the round trip and bring in two

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cars of bottled beer that will be on track waiting
for you, and get back by pay day the tenth
the time in my mind it was twelve days. There's
five extra in it for each man for the trip,
and I'll make it right with you, he added, as
he noticed my hesitation, though I was only making a
mental calculation. Why certainly, Captain, I said, what's the fable

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about the jack rabbit and the land tarrapin. He didn't know,
and I didn't either, So I said, to illustrate the point,
put your freight on a bull train and it always
goes through on time. A race horse can't beat an
ox on a hundred miles and repeat to a freight wagon. Well,
we unloaded before night, and it was pitch dark before

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we made camp. I explained the situation to the men.
We've planned the go in empty in five days, which
would give us seven to come back load it. We
made every camp on time, like clockwork. The fifth morning,
we were anxious to get a day break start so
we could load at night. The night herder had his
orders to bring in the oxen the first sign of day,

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and I called the cook an hour before light. When
the oxen were brought in, the men were up and
ready to go to yoking. But the nigh wheeler and
Joe Janks team, a big brindle muley ox, a regular
pet steer, was missing. I saw him myself, Joe saw him,
and the knight Herder swore he came in with the rest. Well,

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we looked high and low for that mister ox but
he had vanished. While the men were eating their breakfast.
I got on my horse and the knight herder and
I scoured and circled that country for miles around, but
no ox. The country was so bare and level that
a jack rabbit needed to carry a fly for a shade.
I was worried, for we needed every ox and every

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moment of time. I ordered Joe to tie his mate
behind the trail wagon and pull out one ox. Shy Well, Fellers,
the thing worried me. Powerful half the teamsters, good honest,
truthful men as ever popped the whip, swore they saw
that ox when they came in well. It served a

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strong argument that a man can be positive and yet
be mistaken. We nooned ten miles from our night camp
that day. Jerry Wilkins happened to mention it at dinner
that he believed his trail needed greasing. Why, said Jerry,
you think that I was loaded? The way my team
kept their chains taut. I noticed Joe get up from

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dinner before he had finished, as if an idea had
struck him. He went over and opened the sheet in
Jerry's trail wagon, and his smile spread over his countenance.
Come here, fellers, was all he said. We ran over
to the wagon, and there the boys turned their back
with indistinct mutterings of disgust. You all don't need to

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believe this if you don't want to. But there was
that missing ox, coiled up and sleeping like a bear
in the wagon. He had even Jerry's roll of betting
for a pillow. You see, the wagon sheet was open
in the front, and he had hopped up under the
trail tongue and crept in there to steal a ride.
Joe climbed into the wagon and gave him a few

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swift kicks in the short ribs. When he opened his eyes,
he yawned, got up and jumped out. Bull was rolling
a cigarette before starting, while Fox's night horse was hard
to bridle, which hindered them With this slight delay. Forrest
turned his horse back and continued that same ox on
the next trip. One night, when we had the wagons

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parked in a corral, got away from the herder, tiptoed
over the men's bed in the gate, stood on its
hind legs long enough to eat four fifty pound sacks
of flour out of the rear end of a wagon,
got down on a side, wormed his way under the
wagon back into the herd without being detected or waking
a man. As they rode away to relieve the first guard,

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mc cann said, isn't he a muzzle loading daisy? If
I loved a liar, I'd hugged that man to death.
The absence of our foreman made no difference. We all
knew our places on guard. Experience told us that there
would be no trouble that night. After Wyatt, round Tree
and Moss Strayhorn had made down their bed and got

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into it, Wyat remarked, did you ever notice, old Side,
how hard this ground is? Oh? Yes, said Moss, as
he turned over, hunting for a soft spot. It is hard,
but we'll forget all that when this trip ends, Brother dear,
Just think of those long slings with red cherries floating
around in them that will be drinking, and picture usque

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smoking cigars in a blaze. That thought alone ought to
make a hard bed soft and warm. Then the think
will ride all the way home on the cars. Mc
cann banked this fire, and the first guard, Wheat, Stallings
and Barrowstone rode in from the herd, all singing an
old chorus that had been composed with little regard for

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music or sense about a hotel where they had stopped
the year before. Sure, it's one sent for coffee and
two cents for bread, three for a steak, and five
for a bed. Sea breeze from the utter laughs a
saltwater smell to the festive cowboy in the Southwestern hotel.

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End of Chapter nine,