18 - The Log of a Cowboy: The North Platte

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter eighteen of The Log of a Cowboy by Andy Adams.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The North
platt It was now July. We had taken on new
supplies at Ogalala, and a week afterwards the herd was
snailing along the North Platte on its way to the

(00:22):
land of the Blackfeet. It was always hard to get
a herd past a supply point. We had the same
trouble when we passed Dodge. Our long hours in the saddle,
coupled with the monotony of our work, made these supply
points of such interest to us that they were like
oases in desert lands to devotes on pilgrimage to some

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consecrated shrine. We could have spent a week in Ogalala
and enjoyed our visit every blessed moment of the time.
But now a week later, most of the headaches had disappeared,
and we had settled down to our daily work. Rust Creek,
the last stream of water before entering Wyoming. A lad

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who cut the trail at that point for some cattle companies,
after trimming us up, rode along for half a day
through their range and told us of an accident which
happened about a week before. The horse of some peeler
working with one of Shanghai Pierce's herds acted up one
morning and fell backwards with him so that his gun

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accidentally discharged. The outfit lay over a day and gave
him as decent a burial as they could. We would
find the new made grave ahead on Squaw Creek, beyond
the crossing to the right hand side, in a clump
of cottonwoods. The next day, while watering the herd at
this creek, we all rode over and looked at the grave.

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The outfit had fixed things up quite nicely. They had
built a square pen of rough cottonwood logs around the grave,
and had marked the head and foot with a big
flat stone edged up, heaping up quite a mount of
stones to keep the animals away in a tree. His
name was Cut sounded natural too, though none of us

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knew him. As Spears always drove from the East coast country.
There was nothing different about this grave from the hundreds
of others which made landmarks on the old Western trail,
except that it was the latest. That night, around the
camp fire, some of the boys were moved to tell
their experiences this accident might happen to any of us,

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and it seemed rather short notice to a man enjoying life,
even though his calling was rough. As for myself, said
Rod Wheat, I'm not going to fret. You can avoid
it when it comes, and every now and then you
miss it by a hare. I had an uncle who
served four years in the Confederate Army, when, through thirty engagements,

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was wounded half a dozen times, and came home well
and sound. Within a month after his return. A plow
handle kicked him in the side, and we buried him
within a week. Oh well, said Fox, commenting on the
sudden call of the man whose grave we had seen.
It won't make much a difference to this fellow back here.

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When the horn toots and the graves give up their dead,
he might just as well start from there as anywhere.
I don't envy him none, though, But if I had
any pity to offer now, it would be for a
mother or sister who might wish that he slept nearer home.
This last remark carried our minds far away from their

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present surroundings to other graves which were not on the trail.
There was a long silence. We lay around the camp
fire and gazed into its depths, while its flickering light
threw our shadows out beyond the circle. Our revelry was
finally broken by Ash Borrowstone, who was, by all odds
the most impressionable and emotional one in the outfit, a

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man who always argued the moral side of every question,
yet could not be credited with possessing an iota of
moral stamina. Gloomy as we were, he added to our
depression by relating a pathetic incident which occurred at a
child's funeral. When Flood reproved him, saying, well, neither that

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one you mention, nor this one of Pierce's man, is
any of our funeral. We're on the trail with Lovell's cattle.
You should keep nearer the earth. There was a long
silence after this reproof of the foreman. It was evident
that there was a gloom settling over the outfit. Our
thoughts were ranging wide. At last rod Wheat spoke up

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and said that, in order to get the benefit of
all the variations, the blues were not a bad thing
to have, But the depression of our spirits was not
so easily dismissed. In order to avoid listening to the
gloomy tales that were being narrative around the camp fire.
A number of us got up and went out as

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if to look up the night horses on picket. The
Rebel and I pulled our picket pins and changed our
horses to fresh grazing, and after lying down among the
horses out of hearing of the camp for over an hour,
returned to the wagon, expecting to retire. A number of
the boys were making down their beds as it was

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already late. But on our arrival at the fire, one
of the boys had just concluded a story as gloomy
as the others which had preceded it. These stories you
were telling tonight, said Flood, remind me of what Liege
Link said to the book agent when he was shearing sheep.
I Reckon, said Liege, that book of yours has a

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heap site more poetry in it than there is in
shearing sheep. I wish I had gone on guard tonight,
so I could have missed these stories. At this juncture,
the first guard rode in, having been re leaved, and
John Officer, who had exchanged places on guard that night
with Moss Strayhorn, remarked that the cattle were uneasy. This

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outfit said he didn't half water the herd to day.
One third of them hasn't bet it down yet, and
they don't act as if they aim to either. There's
no excuse for it in a well watered country like this.
I'll leave the saddle on my horse anyhow. Now that's
the result, said our foreman of the hour. We spent
around that grave to day when we ought to have

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been tending to our job. This outfit, he continued, when
Officer returned from picketing his horse, have been trying the
whole funeral services over that pierced man's grave back there.
You'd think so, anyway, from the tales they've been telling.
I hope you won't get the sniffles and tell any this.
Letting yourself get gloomy, said officer. Reminds me of a

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time we once had at the j H camp in
the Cherokee Strip. It was near Christmas and the work
was all done up. The boys had blowed in their
summer wages and were feeling glum all over. One or
two of the boys were lamenting that they hadn't gone
home to see the old folks. This gloomy feeling kept

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spreading until they actually wouldn't speak to each other. One
of them would go out and sit on the wood
pile for hours, all by himself, and make a new
set of good resolutions. Another would go out and sit
on the ground on the sunny side of the corrals
and date holes in the frozen earth with his knife.
They wouldn't come the meals when the cook called them. Now. Miller,

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the foreman, didn't have any sympathy for them. In fact,
he delighted to see them in that condition. He hadn't
any use for a man who wasn't dead tough under
any condition. I've known him the camp his outfit on
alkali water. So the men would get out in the morning,
and every rascal bag leave to ride on the outside

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circle on the morning round up. Well three days before Christmas,
just when things were looking gloomiest, there drifted up from
the Cheyenne country, one of the old timers. None of
them had seen him in four years, though he had
worked on that range before, and with the exception of myself,
they all knew him. He was writing the Chuck line

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all right, But Miller gave him a welcome as he
was the real thing. He had been working out in
the Panhandle country, New Mexico and the devil knows where
since he had left that range. He was meaty with
news and scary stories. The boys would sit around and
listen to him yarn, and now and then a smile
would come on their faces. Miller was delighted with his guest.

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He had shown no signs of letting up. At eleven
o'clock the first night, when he happened to mention where
he was the Christmas before, there was a little woman
at the ranch, said he wife of the owner, and
I was helping her get up dinner, as we had
quite a number of folks at the ranch. She asked
me to make the bear sign doughnuts, she called them,

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and I did, though she had to show me how
some little well fellas you ought to have seen them,
just sweet enough, brown to a turn, and enough to
last a week. All the folks at dinner that day
praised them. Since then, I've had a chance to try
my hand several times, and you may not tumble to
the diversity of all my accomplishments, but I am an artist.

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On bear sign Miller arose, took him by the hand
and said that's straight, now, is it? That's straight? Making
bear sign is my long suit mouse, said Miller to
one of the boys. Go out and bring in his
saddle from the stable and put it under my bed.
Throw his horse into the big pasture in the morning.

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He stays here until spring, and the first spear of
green grass I see his name, goes on the pay roll.
This outfit shy on men who can make bear sign. Now,
I was thinking that you could spread down your blankets
on the hearth, but you can sleep with me tonight.
You go to work on this specialty of yours right

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after breakfast in the morning, and show us what you
can do in that line. They talked quite a while longer,
and then turned in for the night. The next morning,
after breakfast was over, he got the needed articles together
and went to work. But there was a surprise in
store for him. There was nearly a dozen men lying around,

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all able eaters. By ten o'clock he began to turn
them out as he said he could. When the regular
cook had to have the stove to get dinner. The
taste which we had had made us ravenous for more
dinner over he went at them again in earnest. A
boy riding towards the railroad with an important letter dropped in,

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and as he claimed he could only stop for a moment,
we stood aside until he had had a taste, though
he filled himself like a poisoned pup. After eating a
solid hour, he filled his pockets and rode away. One
of our regular men called after him, don't tell anybody
what we got. We didn't get any supper that night.

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Not a man could have eaten a bite. Miller made
him knock off along in the shank of the evening,
as he had done enough for one day. The next morning,
after breakfast, he fell to at the bear sign once more.
Miller rolled a barrel of flour into the kitchen from
the storehouse and told him to fly at them. About

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how many do you think you'll want, asked our bear
sign man. That big tub won't be any too many,
answered Miller. Some of these fellows haven't had any of
this kind of truck since they were little boys. If
this gets out, I looked for men from other camps.
The fellow fell to his work like a thoroughbred, which

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he surely was. About ten o'clock, two men rode up
from a camp to the north, which the boy had
passed the day before with the letter. They never went
near the dugout, but straight to the kitchen. That movement
showed that they were on to the racket. An hour later,
Old Tom cave rode in his horse all in a ladder,

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all the way from Gerretston's camp, twenty five miles to
the east. The old sinner said that he had been
on the frontier some little time, and that these were
the best bear sign he had tasted in forty years.
He refused to take a stool and sit down like
civilized folks, but stood up by the tub and picked
out the ones, which were a pale brown. After dinner,

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our man threw off his overshirt, unbuttoned his red undershirt
and turned it in until you could see the hair
on his breast. Rolling up his sleeves, he flew at
his job once more. He was getting his work reduced
to a sci by this time. He rolled his dough,
cut his dough, and turned out the fine brown bear

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sign to the satisfaction of all. His capacity, however, was limited.
About two o'clock, Doc Langford and two of his peelers
were seen riding up when he came into the kitchen.
Doc swore by all that was good and holy that
he hadn't heard that our artist had come back to
that country. But any one that was noticing could see

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him edge around to the tub. It was easy to
see that he was lying. This luck of ours was
circulating faster than a secret amongst women. Our man, though,
stood at his post like the boy on the burning deck.
When night came on, he hadn't covered the bottom of
the tub. When he knocked off, Doc Langford and his

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men gobbled up what was left. We gave them a
mean look as they rode off, but they came back
the next day five strong. Our regular man around the
camp didn't like it the way things were going. They
tried to act polite to calling bear signs doughnuts. Interrupted
quince Forest reminds me, what will you kindly hobble your lip,

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said officer. I have the floor at present, as I
was saying. They tried to act polite to company that way,
but we hadn't got a smell. The second day, our
man showed no signs of fatigue and told several good
stories at night. He was tough. The next day was Christmas,
but he had no respect for a holiday, and made

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up a large batch of dough before breakfast. It was
a good thing he did, for Early that morning, Original
John Smith and four of his peelers rode in from
the west, their horses all covered with frost. They must
have started at daybreak. It was a good twenty two
mile ride. They wanted us to believe that they had
simply come over to spend Christmas with us company. That

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way you can't say anyth but the easy manner in
which they gravitated around that tub, not even waiting to
be invited, told a different tale. They were not nearly
satisfied by noon. Then Who should come drifting in as
we were sitting down to dinner but Billy Dunlap and
Jim Hale from Quinlan's camp, thirty miles south on the Cimmarin.

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Dunlap always holed up like a bear in the winter,
and several of the boys spilled their coffee at the
sight of him. He put up a thin excuse, just
like the rest. Any one could see through it, But
there it was again. He was company. Lots of us
had eaten at his camp and complained of his chuck.
Therefore we were nice to him. Miller called our man

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out behind the kitchen and told him to knock off
if he wanted to, but he wouldn't do it. He
was clean strain, I'm not talking. Dunlap ate hardly any dinner.
We noticed, and the very first batch of bear signs
turned out. He loads up a tin plate and goes
out and sits behind the storehouse in the sun, all alone.

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In his glory. He satisfied himself out of the tub.
After that, he and Hale stayed all night, and Dunlap
kept every one awake with the nightmares. Yes, kept fighting
the demons all night. The next morning, Miller told him
that he was surprised that an old, gray haired man
like him didn't know when he had had enough, but

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must gorge himself like some silly kid. Miller told him
that he was welcome to stay a week if he
wanted to, but he would have to sleep in the stable.
It was cruel to the horses, but the men were
entitled to a little sleep at least in the winter.
Miller tempered his remarks with all kindness, and Dunlap acted
as if he was sorry and as good as admitted

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that his years were telling on him. That day our
man filled his tub. He was simply an artist on
bear sign, calling bear sign doughnuts cut in Quin's forest
again as soon as he saw an opening. Reminds me
of what the little boy said, who went? But there
came a rumbling of many hoofs from the bed ground.

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There's hell for you, said half a dozen men in
a chorus, and every man in camp ran for his horse,
but the cook and he climbed into the wagon. The
roar of the running cattle was like approaching thunder, but
the flash from the six shooters of the men on
guard indicated that they were quartering by camp, heading out
towards the hills. Horses became so excited that they were

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difficult to bridle. There was plenty of earnest and sincere
sweating none that night. All the fine sentiment and melancholy
of the hour previous vanished in a moment, and the
men threw themselves into their saddles, riding deep, for it
was on certain footing to the horses. Within two minutes
from the time the herd had left the bed, fourteen

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of us rode on their left point and across their front,
firing our six shooters in their faces. By the time
the herd had covered a scant mile, we had thrown
them into a mill. They had run so compactly that
there were no stragglers, so we loosened out and gave
them room. But it was a long time before they
relaxed any but continued going round and round like a

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water wheel or an endless chain. The foremen ordered three
men on the heaviest horses to split them. The men
rode out a short distance to get the required momentum,
wheeled their horses, and wedge shaped, struck the sea of
cattle and entered, but it instantly closed in their wake,
as though it had been water for an hour. They

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rode through the herd back and forth, now from this quarter,
now from that, and finally the mill was broken. After midnight,
as luck would have it, heavy dark clouds banked in
the northwest and lightning fly, and before a single animal
had lain down, a drizzling rain set in that settled it.

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It was an all night job. Now we drifted about
hither and yon horses, men and cattle, turned their backs
to the wind and rain, and waited for morning. We
were so familiar with the signs of coming day that
we turned them loose half an hour before dawn, leaving
herders and rode for camp. As we groped our way

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in that dark hour before dawn, hungry, drenched, and bedraggled,
there was nothing gleeful about us, while Bob Blades expressed
his disgust over our occupation. If I ever get home again,
said he, and the tones of his voice were an
able second to his remarks. You all can go up
the trail that want't to, But here's one chicken that won't.

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There isn't a cowman in Texas who is money enough
to hire me again. Ah hell now, said bull. You
oughtn't let a little rain ruffle your feathers that way.
Cheer up, sonny, you may be rich some day yet,
and walk on Brussels and velvet. End of Chapter eighteen,