12 - The Log of a Cowboy: The North Fork

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter twelve of The Log of a Cowboy by Andy Adams.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The North Fork.
There was never very much love lost between government soldiers
and our tribe, so we swept past camp's supply in contempt.
A few days later and crossed the North Fork of

(00:23):
the Canadian to camp for the night. Flood and Machan
went into the post, as our supply of flower and
navy beans was running rather low, and our foreman had
hopes that he might be able to get enough of
these staples from the sutler to last until we reached Dodge.
He also hoped to receive some word from Lovell. The

(00:44):
rest of us had no lack of occupation as a
result of a chance find of mine that morning. Honeyman
had stood my guard the night before, and in return
I had got up when he was called to help
rustle the horses. We had every horse under her hand
before the sun peeped over the eastern horizon, And when
returning to camp with the Ramuda, as I rode through

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a bunch of sumac bush, I found a wild turkey's
nest with sixteen fresh eggs in it. Honeyman rode up
when I dismounted, and putting them in my hat, handing
them up to Billy until I could mount, for they
were beauties and as precious to us as gold. There
was an egg for each man in the outfit, and

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won over and mac cann threw a heap of swagger
into the inquiry, gentlemen, how will you have your eggs
this morning? Just as though it was an every day affair,
they were issued to us fried and I naturally felt
the odd egg, by rights ought to fall to me,
but the opposing majority was formidable. Fourteen the one so

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I yielded. The number of ways was suggested to allot
the odd egg. But the gambling fever in us being
rabid raffling or playing cards for it seemed to be
the proper caper. Raffling had few advocates. It reflects on
a man's raising, said quince Forrest, contemptuously to suggest the

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idea of raffling when we've got cards and all night
to play for that egg. The very idea of raffling,
for it, I'd like to see myself pulling straws or
drawing numbers from a hat, like some giggling girl at
a church fair. Poker is a science. The highest court
in Texas has said so. And I want some little

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show for my interest in that speckled egg. What have
I spent twenty years learning the game for? Will some
of you tell me why it lets me out if
you raffle it? The argument remain unanswered, and the play
for it gave interest to that night. As soon as
supper was over and the first guard had taken the herd,

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the poker game opened, each man being given ten beans
for chips. We had only one deck of cars, so
one game was all that could be run at a time.
But there were six players, and when one was frozen out,
another sat in and took his place. As wood was plentiful,
we had a good fire, and this, with the aid

(03:15):
of the cook's lantern, gave an abundance of light. We
unrolled a bed to serve as a table and sat
down on it Indian fashion, and as fast as one
seat was vacated, there was a man ready to fill it,
for we were impatient for our turns in the game.
The talk turned on an accident which had happened that

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afternoon while we were crossing the North Fork of the
Canadian Bob Blades attempted to ride out of the river
below the crossing when his horse bogged down. He instantly dismounted,
and his horse, after floundering around, scrambled out and up
the bank, but with a broken leg. Our foreman had

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ridden up and ordered the horse unsaddled and shot to
put him out of his suffering while waiting our turns.
The accident to the horse was referred to several times,
and finally Blades, who was sitting in the game, turned
to us, who were lounging around the fire, and asked,
did you all notice that look he gave me as

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I was uncinching the saddle. If he had been human,
he might have told me what that look meant. Good thing,
he was a horse and couldn't realize. From then on,
the yearning and conversation was strictly horse. It's always a
mystery to me, said Billy Honeyman, how a Mexican or
Indian knows so much more about a horse than any

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of us. I have seen them trail a horse across
the country for miles, riding in a long lope, and
not a trace or sign visible to me. I was
helping a horseman once to drive a herd of horses
to San Antonio from the lower Real Grand Country. We
were driving them to market, and as there were no

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railroads south then, we had taken along saddle horses to
ride home after disposing of the herd. We always took
favorite horses which we didn't wish to sell, generally to
a piece for that purpose. This time, when we were
at least a hundred miles from the ranch, the Mexican
who had brought along a pet horse to ride home,

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thought he wouldn't hobble his pet one night, fancying the
animal wouldn't leave the others well, next morning his pet
was missing. We scoured the country around and the trail
we had come over for ten miles, but no horse.
As the country was all open, we felt positive he
would go back to the ranch. Two days later, and

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about forty miles higher up the road, the Mexican was
riding in the lead of the herd when suddenly he
reined in his horse, throwing him back on his haunches,
and waved for some of us to come to him,
never taking his eyes off what he said. Awe in
the road. The owner was riding on one point of
the herd and I on the other. We hurried around

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to him and both rode up at the same time
when the Vicaro blurted out, there's my horse's track. What horse?
Asked the owner? My own, the horse we lost two
days ago, replied the Mexican. How do you know it's
your horse's track from the thousands of others that fill
the road, demanded his employer, Don Tomas, said the Aztec,

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lifting his hat, how do I know your step or
voice from a thousand others? We laughed at him. He
had been a peon, and that made him respect our opinions.
At least he avoided differing with us. But as we
drove on that afternoon, we could see him in the
lead watching for that horse's track. Several times he turned

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in his saddle and looked back, pointed to some track
in the road, and lifted his hat to us. At
camp that night, we tried to draw him out, but
he was silent. But when we were nearing San Antonio,
we overtook a number of wagons loaded with wool lying
over as it was Sunday, and there among their horses

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and mules was our Mexican's missing horse. The owner of
the wagons, explained how he came to have the horse.
The animal had come to his camp one morning back
about twenty miles from where we had lost him, while
he was feeding grain to his work stock, and being
a pet, insisted on being fed. Since then, I have

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always had a lot of respect for Greeser's opinion regarding
a horse. Turkey eggs is too rich for my blood,
said Bob Blades, rising from the game. I don't care
a continental who wins the egg now, for whenever I
get three queens pat beat by a four card draw,
I have misgivings about that deal. And old Quince thinks

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he can stack cards he couldn't stack Hay, speaking about
Mexicans and Indians, said Wyatt Roundtree, I've got more use
for a good horse than I have for either of
those grades of humanity. I had a little experience over
east of here, on the cut from the Chisholm Trail
a few years ago that gave me all the Indian

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I want for some time to come. A band of
renegade Cheyennes had hung along the trail for several years,
scaring or begging passing herds into giving them a beef.
Of course, all the cattle herds had more or less
strays among them, so it was easier to cut out
one of these than to argue the matter. There were

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plenty of herds on the trail then, so this band
of Indians got bolder than bandits. In the year I'm
speaking of, I went up with a herd of horses
belonging to a Texas man who was in charge with us.
When we came along with our horses, only six men
all told, the chief of the band called running bull

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Sheep got on the bluff bigger than a wolf and
demanded six horses. Well, the Texan wasn't looking for any
particular Injian that day to give six of his own
dear horses to, so he just drove on, paying no
attention to mister bulls Sheep. About half a mile further
up the trail, the chief overtook us with all his bucks,

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and they were an ugly looking lot. Well, this time
he held up four fingers, meaning that four horses would
be acceptable, But the Texan wasn't recognizing the Indian levy
of taxation that year when he refused them. The Indians
never parleyed a moment, but set up a key Yee
and began circling round the herd on their ponies, bull

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sheep in the lead. As the chief passed the owner
his horse on a run, he gave a special shrill.
Ki Ye whipped a short carving out of its scabbard
and shot twice into the rear of the herd. Never
for a moment considering the consequences, the Texan brought a
six shooter into action. It was a long party shot,

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and mister bullshep threw his hands in the air and
came off his horse backwards hard hit. The shooting in
the rear of the horses gave them such a scare
that we never checked them short of a mile. While
the other Indians were holding a little pow wow over
their chief, we were making good time in the other direction,
considering that we had over eight hundred loose horses. Fortunately,

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our wagon and saddle horses had gone ahead that morning,
but in the run we overtook them. As soon as
we checked the herd from its scare, we turned them
up the trail, stretched ropes from the wheels of the wagon,
ran the saddle horses in and changed mounts just a
little quicker than I ever saw it. Done before or since.

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The cook had a saddle in the wagon, so we
caught him up a horse, clapped leather on him, and
him behind the wagon in case of an emergency, and
you can bet we changed to our best horses when
we overtook the herd. We were at least a mile
and a half from where the shooting occurred, and there
was no Indian in sight, but we felt they hadn't

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given it up. We hadn't too long to wait, though
we would have waited willingly. Before we heard their yells
and saw the dust rising in clouds behind us. We
quit the herd and wagon right there and rode for
a swell of ground ahead that would give us a
rare view of the scenery. The first view we caught
of them was not very encouraging. They were riding after

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us like fiends and kicking up a dust like a
wind storm. We had nothing but six shooters, no good
for long range. The owner of the horses admitted that
it was useless to try to save the herd now,
and if our scalps were worth saving, it was high
time to make ourselves scarce. Cantonment was a government post

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about twenty five miles away. So he rode forward. Our
horses were good Spanish stock and the Indian's little bench
legged ponies were no match for them. But not satisfied
with the wagon and herd falling into their hands, they
followed us until we were within sight of the post.
As hard luck would have it, the cavalry stationed that

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this posts were off on some escort duty, and the
infantry was useless in this case. When the cavalry returned
a few days later, they tried to round up those Indians,
and the Indian agent used his influence, but the horses
were so divided up and scattered that they were never recovered.
And did the man loose his horses entirely? Asked Flood,

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who had anted up his last bean and joined us.
He did. There was I remember a tin horn lawyer
up about Dodge, who thought he could recover their value,
as these were agency Indians and the government owed them money.
But all I got for three months wages do me
was the horse I got away on. Mc cann had

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been frozen out during round Tree's yarn and had joined
the crowd of story tellers on the other side of
the fire. Forrest was feeling quite Galla and took a
special delight in taunting the vanquished as they dropped out.
Is mac cann there, inquired he well, knowing he was.
I just wanted to ask, would it be any trouble

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to poach that egg for my breakfast and serve it
with a bit of toast. I'm feeling a little bit dainty.
You'll poach it for me, won't you please? Mc cann
never moved a muscle as he replied, will you please
go to hell? The story telling continued for some time,
and while Fox quarter Night was regaling us with the

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history of Little Black Mayor that a neighbor of theirs
in Kentucky owned, a dispute arose in the card game
regarding the rules of discard and all I'm too old
a girl, said the rebel angrily to Forrest. To allow
a pullet like you to teach me this game. When
it's my deal, I'll discard just when I please, and

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it's none of your business so long as I keep
within the rules of the game, which sounded final, and
the game continued. Quarter Knight picked up the broken thread
of his narrative, and the first warning we had of
the lateness of the hour was bull Durham calling to
us from the game. One of you fellows can have
my place just as soon as we play this jackpot.

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I've got to saddle my horse and get ready for
our guard. Oh I'm on velvet anyhow, and before this
game ends, I'll make old Quince curl his tail. I've
got em going south now. It took me only a
few minutes to lose my chance at the Turkey egg,
and I sought my blankets at one a m. When

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our guard was called, the beans were almost equally divided
among priests Stallings, Durham, and in view of the fact
that Forrest, whom we all wanted to see beaten, had
met defeat, they agreed to cut the cards for the egg,
Stallings winning. We mounted our horses and rode out into
the night, and the second guard rode back to our

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camp singing. Two little niggers upstairs in the bed. One
turned the other the other and said, how about that
shortening bread? How about that shortening bread? End of Chapter twelve.