Chapter III: Part 3

My father had now declared quite emphatically, though perhaps a bit inelegantly, that he would establish a tannery here in Wetmore. It was not idle talk. He experimented, and in due time the tannery was a going concern. Not immediately, however. Capital had to be provided, and it took time to bring materials. The tannery was an “open” yard in the bend of the creek just west of where the town bridge is now—a sort of makeshift affair, operated only in the summer months. But in one respect it was regular. It had the tanyard smell.

The black oak-sumac mixture made a fine grade of leather—much better than leather made with straight oak bark, and superior to the present-day chemically tanned leather. My father tanned only calfskins. His surplus stock was sold to L. Kipper & Sons, wholesale dealers, Atchison, Kansas.

I want to say here that those inviting black oaks, earlier mentioned, made it easy for my father to graciously accept his friend’s apology, on the plea of forgetfulness—and when he went to deal for the trees John Wolfley said, “Why, yes, of course you may have them. You know, Bristow, much as I prize my trees, I couldn’t refuse an old friend like you.” He glanced toward me, and now I’ll swear there were mirthful crinkles playing about the man’s eyes.

The black oaks were cut in the spring when the sap was up, then the bark was spudded off the trunks of the trees. All available black oaks within a radius of twenty-five miles of Wetmore were cleaned up in three years. The last tan-bark came from the Wingo farm near Soldier, twenty miles away—wagon haul. That was considered a long haul in those days. The roads here then were no more than winding trails across country, radiating in every direction from town, like the spokes in a wagon-wheel. And there were almost no bridges. The creeks were forded.

The sumac — that innocent little flaming bush, over which young and inexperienced writers are wont to revel — was cut with corn-knives and left spread on the ground until dry. The leaves were then stripped off the stems with a little corn-sheller, the kind that fastened on the hand. The sumac stems were drawn through the closed shelter and the leaves were caught upon a large canvas. Like harvesting tanbark, that was work which had to be done in season—not too soon, not too late.

The time to get busy was when the sumac began to show a tinge of coloring late in the summer, after maturity. But, as the Indian had said, when the big splash came — when the sumac thickets took on a blaze of coloring, that dark crimson hue, as if Nature had spilled the life-blood of the waning summer to glorify the last minute splendor of its passing—it was then time to quit. The leaves would no longer remain on the stems to carry through the drying process. Yes! That was it! “Catchum ‘fore go red!”

My father made Eagle Eye a pair of boots with leather tanned by the new process. He gave them to the Indian, Eagle Eye wanted to pay for them. He had Government money and he had ponies. When money was refused, he thought a pony would be about right. Maybe two, three or even a herd of ponies would not be too much. But my father said, “No, just bring me a deerskin sometime.”

The Indian brought him a green buffalo hide. At that time all swell turnouts—horse and buggy conveyances — included a buffalo robe. When, in time, the hide had been tanned and made up, my father found himself in the rather awkward position of owning a buffalo robe without the turn-out. But even so it was not a worthless treasure. On cold, stormy, winter nights—they were bitter cold then—it served as an extra bed coverlet for a quarter of a dozen of his boys, with, at times, an additional neighbor boy or two thrown in for good measure.

Buffalo were quite plentiful only a hundred miles or so west of here then. But our Kickapoos did not often venture west of the Blue River. Hostile Indians roamed that territory. The Pawnees were the worst Indians the whites had to contend with on the old Overland Trail between the Big Blue and Fort Kearney. Eagle Eye’s gift was all the more appreciated because he had braved the hostile Pawnees to get a suitable present for his “Paleface” friend.

The boots my father made for the Indian were of the tongue pattern, with morocco tops and small high heels. The tops were scalloped with half-moons over red sheepskin. A big red heart was fashioned in the top front. Eagle Eye was very proud of his boots. They were, I believe, the first boots to be worn on the reservation.

But, in time, one of those boots ripped. The side seam gaped near the ankle. The Indian had been walking through wet grass when he came to the shop to get the rip sewed up. He tried to pull his boot off. It stuck tight. My father did not have a bootjack. He always said he did not like to have his perfectly fashioned boot-counters ruined by the use of a boot-jack. He had a better way.

My father turned his back to the Indian, and told Eagle Eye to stick his boot between his—the shoemaker’s—legs and push with the other foot. “Harder, push harder!” cried the human boot-jack. When the boot finally came off, a first-class shoemaker took a header into a pile of lasts and other rubbish in the corner of the room. He came up with a skinned nose.

The Indian—who had now come to call himself Eagle Eye when in the presence of my father—did not, of course get any kick out of hurting his “paleface” friend, but it was plain to be seen that pleasant thoughts were engaging him. An Indian laughs rarely, if ever—not the old Indians two generations back, anyway. But he had his moments of extreme pleasure.

When the rip was repaired, the Indian had a hard time getting his water-soaked boot back on. My older brother, Charley, said to me, “Eagle Eye will have to sleep with his boots on tonight.” The Indian heard. His copper-colored face again registered anticipated pleasure. He actually smiled a bit as if he saw real humor in the thing.

“Huh!” he grunted, as he raised his foot and thrust it to the fore with much vigor, “Pushum squaw maybe! Heap fool squaw all time say Eagle Eye not smart!”

A TWOTIMER We were having company for supper. Little Dorothy Bristow. four year old daughter of my brother Frank and wife Cecile, told August and Hulda Bleisener they need not be afraid of the silver, that she and her aunt Myrtle had cleaned it that afternoon.

But—hold your laugh.

My wife had put pickled cling peaches on the table. Now, everyone knows how hard it is to get the meat off a pickled cling peach. I shoved one into my mouth and was doing the best I could with it when Myrtle, looking across the table, said with shocked overtone, “Did you put that whole peach in your mouth?” She of course had not seen August put one in his mouth—but, no matter, August shot his out onto his plate right now.

TEXAS CATTLE AND RATTLESNAKES Not Hitherto Published—1947.

By John T. Bristow

When harvesting sumac, often barefooted and always barehanded, we boys, sons of the tanner, had to keep a sharp lookout for rattlesnakes—and Texas cattle. We were repeatedly so warned by our parents. Also, it was generally understood that all children should “watchout” for Indians. This, however, did not greatly disturb us after we had made friends with Eagle Eye.

Then, one day, while cutting sumac for the tannery, with my brother Charley, near a timbered ravine three miles out southeast, close to the Oliver Logue farm, a long-horn steer, out of a large herd, chased me up a tree early in the afternoon and held me prisoner in the treetop until the riders, Abe Williams and John Taylor, came to round up the herd for the night.

I thought that steer would surely butt his horns off, the way he rammed that six-inch tree. He would back off, paw the ground, shake his slobbering head, and come snorting at the tree again and again. After quieting down, he grazed fitfully and frightfully close to the tree—and he came trotting in several times with something ugly on his bovine mind, I’m sure. Even now I wonder is it possible for an enraged cowbrute to have red eyes.

The day herder, at ease, on a ridge a quarter mile to the west—probably reading a Frank Merriwell baseball story—was letting the herd feed north, and so long as the cattle did not attempt to go over the rise to the east, out of sight, Wes Shuemaker would have no occasion to ride down my way. And it would have been futile for me to have tried to call him, with a south wind blowing forty-fifty mph.

My brother was safely on the other side of the ravine close to trees, but he slipped out the back way and went home. I knew he was doing the right thing. And I knew too that I would remain in the tree until the arrival of the riders. Those Texas cattle behaved nicely for mounted men, but they could not abide a person on foot.

I really had no business on that side of the ravine, with those cattle feeding there—but I guess I was, as always, a little too venturesome. I knew that herd had some bad actors in it. In fact, I had been warned to never get off my horse when riding as relief herder of that same herd, on several occasions. And one time while all alone at the dinner hour my mount, in jumping a ditch, broke the saddle girth and spilled me on a rattlesnake infested prairie, amongst those longhorns—with not a tree in sight.

However, nothing untoward happened. Had my luck been running true to form, there should have been at least one rattlesnake coiled on the margin of the shallow ditch into which I squeezed myself, and waited in misery for the day herder to return. As I lay in the ditch I just had to recall the time, a short while before, when a rattlesnake, coiled by a cowpath, struck as I trotted past—barefoot, of course—and got his fangs hooked in my trouser leg, requiring two wild jumps to dislodge his snakeship.

The herd was owned by Than Morris and Abe Williams, the latter a brother of Mrs. Jake Wolfley. Morris and Wolfley were brothers-in-law. John Taylor, herder, was a son of Hebe Taylor, of Atchison. John Taylor was later bailiff of the Nemaha county court, in Seneca. And he was the father of Earl W. Taylor for whom the Seneca American Legion Post was named. Hebe Taylor also, at one time, ran cattle in the open country southwest of Wetmore — with Ed. Keggin.

Charley went straight to the Morris general store in Wetmore and told Than of my predicament, and Morris immediately rounded up two cowpunchers. John Taylor, working with a herd to the southwest, chanced to be in town, and rode out with Abe Williams.

The herd had grazed on past my tree-perch. The unruly steer did not follow, but if the critter was capable of the sound thinking I was willing to credit him with, “I betcha” he always wished he had. A good cowhand could play a tune with a cattlewhip on a critter’s rump, under dead run. And John Taylor was good. He lashed his short-handled 10-foot whip overhead to the steer’s rump, right and left, with rhythmic timing, making the hair fly with each crack. The steer’s hindparts, seemingly trying to outrun his foreparts, swung to the right and swung to the left with clocklike regularity—and he thus wove himself deep into the herd, bawling “bloody murder.”

When told of John Taylor’s adroitness with the whip, my father said, “I wouldn’t care to tan his hide”—meaning the steer’s, of course. While father bought the hides from the lost dead of all those big herds—sometimes the losses in the early spring were heavy—he tanned only a few of them. He didn’t like to tan a mutilated hide, nor the hide of a branded critter—and he wouldn’t tan a grubby murrain hide.

Thus it was, I herded the cattle that produced the hides that made the leather which I helped make into shoes—all while still in my teens. My apprenticeship as a shoemaker began by holding a candle for my father to work by, at night. And if you could think it was not a wearying task for a sleepy boy, you can think again. The light would have to be shifted from side to side with each stitch as he sewed the soles on shoes. By midnight he usually ran out of “endearing” terms by which to bring me to attention—and he was willing to call it a day. Sometimes my mother would relieve me of this chore, but too often at such times she would be engaged in sewing up the side seams of a new boot, with awl and waxed thread. While I did a lot of repair work satisfactorily, I made out and out only three pairs of shoes. And though always behind with his orders, my father very wisely demanded that I make them all to my own measures.

Might add that we boys, sons of the tanner, and other rough and ready town boys—just to be doing something of our very own—tanned, in the big leather vats, squirrel hides, coon skins, and, of all things, two rattlesnake skins. Wes Shuemaker proudly wore the belt made of those rattlesnake skins for a long time.

Dr. Holland was another Atchison man who, in partnership with his brother-in-law, Mr. Prunty, of Soldier, ran a large herd southwest of town. His corral, a 10-acre pine board enclosure, was in the northwest corner of the Harry Cawood quarter. The land was then owned by Billy Cline, of Soldier. Where there were no corrals, a night herder would have to stay with the cattle.

The Bradford spring—now known as the Joe Pfrang spring—gushing up from a hilltop, was the main attraction for those early day cattlemen. Just how the free range was divided up to carry several individual herds, without clashing, I do not know—but there were no cattle feuds, and no gunplay.

NOTE—The values in cattle, as with everything else, ran low in the old days. An instance: In 1861, Bill Porter had a hard time raising money to pay taxes on two quarters of land. Unable to borrow $7.20, the troublesome amount, he walked and led a big fat cow to Leavenworth, and sold her for $7.50. In marked contrast, Garrett Bartley of Powhattan, son-in-law of Bill Porter, the second, reports a neighbor of his recently sold a 2,000 pound cow on the St. Joseph market for $540.00. I think the herds corralled here and grazed around the Bradford spring were bought for as little as $5 to $8 per head. This year—1950—Joe Pfrang, present owner of the Bradford spring and surrounding acres, bought, in May, a bunch of 700-pound steers for approximately $160.00 each—and after running them on pasture, the same wild grass, with some acres now planted to tame grass, sold them in the fall off grass, for an average of $270.00; a gain of about $110.00 per head. These steers were Texas-bred cattle, too. But they were not “longhorns.” Herefords never are. And likely the Pfrang 1,000-pound steers, out of the feed lot, with 300 pounds added weight, would have sold for about $487.50 each. It was a great year for the cattlemen. Beefsteak in the old days in Wetmore was ten cents a pound for the best cuts.

There were, however, some angry threats between the cattlemen and Old Morgan, an outsider, who had run in four thousand sheep on them. I helped shepherd that flock, And I discovered early that by looping a pebble in the cracker end of my cattle-whip, and sending it over them a little to the outside of the straying sheep that I could bring them back into the fold without effort. Also, the singing noise of the pebble thrown over the flock would divide the sheep into two bunches. I really became quite good at this thing, and played with the discovery a lot — until one day when the missile did not sail true, and a sheep had to hobble home on three legs. We were in the hills south of the creek. The poor little lamb got no help until after the flock had passed over the bridge at the east end of town. Old Morgan usually met us there. Luckily, he was tuned up properly and did all the talking. He threatened to sue the township for permitting a hole to remain open in the bridge. This, I like to think, was the one black mark against my rather diversified career. A sheep herder in a cattle country rated pretty low. Cattle would not graze after sheep. I quit Old Morgan before the season was over.

The cattle herder’s main function was to keep the herds from mixing, and to keep the cattle clear of the creek-bottom farms and the few isolated prairie farms; and also to keep them out of mischief in general, such as running down careless boys—and free of dogs. A dog could always start a stampede. And a cattle stampede was something to be dreaded, in the old days. When those Texas cattle and dogs mixed there was sure to be loud bellowings and a great clashing of hoofs and horns. I have a clear picture of my Uncle Nick’s herd of longhorns, after running themselves down, milling about on the range adjacent to his Wolfley creek farm—milling in a compact bunch, when one could look out upon a sea of horns; nothing but horns.

It was quite the thing for local men who had a little cash, or backing, to take a hand in the cattle game. My Uncle Nick Bristow and Roland Van Amburg contracted for a large herd of those longhorns from Dr. W. L. Challis, cattle broker of Atchison. The cattle were fresh from Texas—brought up over the famed Chisholm trail. Uncle Nick and Van divided the herd, and after running the cattle on grass, tried to carry them through a rather severe winter on prairie hay alone. Those fresh longhorns would not eat corn. The cattle were so weakened by spring that when turned out on grass they mired down in creeks and water holes all over the range. They died in bunches, almost to the last head. And while that cattle deal cost my Uncle his farm, Van said it cost him only his “britches.” Roland Van Amburg was a grand old sport, with a great capacity for seeing the “funny” side of life—and up or down, financially, he was always the same cheery Van.

Other men got out of their Texas cattle speculations less lucky. Dave Garvin, besides losing a lot of his hard-earned money, had to take the “rest cure” for nearly a year. However, those who confined their speculations, within their means, to native-bred cattle made money. John Thornburrow, starting from scratch, amassed a small fortune. Charley Hutchison, a mere boy, scion of a wealthy’ brewer family, sent out here from Ohio to sober up, and put on a section of wild land, made a pile of money from his herds — and more, he became a teetotaler, a solid, honorable citizen. Fred Achten, a fifteen dollar a month farm hand, built the foundation for the Achten Empire, the largest land holdings in the country, largely on cattle and free grass.

Also, John Rebensdorf, a German farm hand, after marrying Christine Zabel and settling down, made plenty of money running cattle on free grass. Rebensdorf was oddly a thrifty man. By no means an inveterate tippler, he liked, occasionally, to pay for his own beer—and drink it himself. Time and again I have seen him ride into town, tie his horse at the rack in the middle of the street in front of the saloon, go in, and, elbow himself a place at the bar, order three quart bottles of beer—always three bottles. When he had leisurely emptied the third bottle he was ready to pipe. “I’ze zee richest man in zee whole country.” And, at that, the man was not far off in his calculations.

One time, John Rebensdorf and his brother-in-law, Albert Zabel, of German parentage, were engaged in a spirited argument—on a street corner, in my hearing — over something which had to do with cattle and free grass, Albert, a fine Christian gentleman momentarily suffering a lapse of piety, called Rebensdorf all the fighting names in the book—that is, all the names that would rile an American, without perceptibly ruffling him. Albert worked himself up Into a white heat, but he couldn’t bestir John. Rebenstorf would say, “No, Albert, you iss wrong.” He repeated this, meekly, several times. Finally, when Rebensdorf, wearied of the argument, started to walk away, Albert yelled parting shot, “You old sauerkraut, you know I’m right!” Then “zee richest man in zee whole country” turned quickly, came blustering back, shaking his big fat fist, and roared, “By gosh, you call me sauerkraut! Now I fight!”

Also, the residents would often—that is, in season, cut hay off the prairie that had been more or less grazed. One summer my brother Sam and I hauled into town $315.00 Worth, at $2.50 a ton, measured in stack—and much of this was done at night, by moonlight, owing to high winds making it impossible to handle the loose hay by day. Owners of cows in town, as well as in the country, always aimed to have enough hay stored to carry their stock through the winter, but often the supply was found to be short, especially when the winters were unusually severe. Then the speculators who had stored hay against such eventualities, would have an inning—maybe get $3 or $3.50 a ton, in stack. One especially energetic man in the Granada neighborhood, with a couple of confederates, put up an unusual amount of this free hay one season, inside fire breaks—then a prairie fire in the late winter destroyed all the outstacked hay belonging to his neighbors. Then bedlam broke loose among the natives. Still there were no killings.

And, even with all that grazing and mowing there was enough grass left on the south range to make spectacular prairie fires, racing at times, all the way to town—and would even sometimes jump the creek and menace the town.

Here is one more of the many incidents attributable to the free grass range. Without refrigeration in the early hot summers the farmer’s wives had difficulty keeping butter made from grass-fed cows fresh until it could be brought to market. On the whole the women managed exceedingly well under trying conditions—it was before the day of screens on the homes—but there were some that didn’t know how, or just didn’t seem to care.

At that time I was clerking in Than Morris’ store, along with Curt Shuemaker, George and Chuck Cawood. We had already accumulated a full barrel of off-grade butter that would have to be sold for soap-grease, when Morris told us all that should a certain woman bring in butter again for us to reject it. It so happened that it fell to the lot of the “cub” clerk to wait on her. Morris and the three other clerks stood by, grinning. I carried her jar into the side room, and without uncovering it, brought it back and told the woman we could not buy it. She appealed to Than, saying, “Mr. Cawood here,” nodding toward me, “took my butter away and got it all dirty, and now says he won’t buy it.” Morris knew what to look for—and it was there for all to see. He said, “Look!” pointing to the uncovered jar, “ Cawood didn’t put those wigglers in your butter. Don’t bring us any more of that stuff.”

The woman insisted that “Mr. Cawood had dirtied it up”—and Morris paid in full, gross weight. And she was permitted to take the whole mess back home, along with her purchases. I was thankful that Morris, in dealing with her, also called me Cawood—minus the “Mister.”

Still calling me “Mr. Cawood,” this woman later told me she had rheumatism—that she had, unfortunately, spilled her cooling bucket in the water well, and that her man would no longer allow her to cool her butter in the customary way — suspended on a rope deep in the well. After she had passed on, the second Mrs. L. made good butter—so good in fact that the town customers called for it by name. But even this could not correct the damage done to my delicate stomach during that summer in the Morris store. I have never tasted raw butter since that time. And with me, after that sheep herding experience, mutton is also taboo. Old Morgan’s sheep were scabby.

Again, while clerking in the Morris store I was put to the test—and though this has nothing whatsoever to do with the free grass range, I am sure you will observe that it is neatly wrapped in fast green. A Miss Sumerville, a relative of the Zabel’s, visiting in Wetmore—I believe she was from Pennsylvania—asked for variegated yarn. I told her we didn’t have that kind, but I would show her what we had. I admit that I was not very bright on some matters — but at that, I wasn’t as dumb as one of the standbys that I could have named.

Morris said, “Show her what you have in that drawer over there,” indicating the drawer holding the variegated yarn. After I had made the sale, Morris complimented me for selling the little lady a lot of something she didn’t want. He said, “When you don’t have what they want, always try to sell them something else.” He henkie-henkie-henkied in a manner which passed as a derisive laugh. “Keep awake, young man,” he said, “and you’ll make a salesman in time — maybe as good as Cawood here,” indicating Chuck.

With George Cox and his two sons, Bill and young George, I helped build that Holland corral earlier mentioned — and a small bunk house. And it was here where I mixed it with the rattlesnake I had been admonished so often to keep a sharp eye out for. Note Note how well young America obeyed the injunction. I saw the rattlesnake coiled by the roadside as we were coming in after the day’s work, with ox-team, piloted by a Mr. Green who had brought the outfit up from Atchison to haul the lumber out from town. I jumped out of the wagon, and hit the snake with a rock. It flopped, then lay still. I thought it was dead but to make sure I prodded it with a stiff prairie weed—and learned pronto that the stick was a mite too short on one end. That rattler lashed out at me, overreaching by the fraction of an inch, with its neck or body falling across my wrist. My hands were scratched and blood-stained from handling the rough pine boards—fencing came in the rough in those days — and Mr. Green insisted that he saw the snake bite me “with my own eyes.” And to prove it, he spotted a snagged place on my hand where he was sure the snake’s fangs had struck.

Mr. Green crowded those normally slow plodding oxen, and we actually came to town by fits and spurts on the gallop. He wanted to buy whisky for me, and seemed awfully distressed when I refused it. He was so exercised over the matter that one easily could have believed that it was he who was in need of a generous slug of the stuff — and I’m not so sure that he didn’t get it. Anyway, I was ready to go out on time the next morning. Mr. Green was not. And you can bet your life I never again tried to poke a diamondback with a stick too short on one end.

Incidentally, I may say there were other close calls and near misses—not to overlook the one August day when a seven-button, (seven-year-old) rattlesnake actually made a ten-strike on my bare foot. And though always to me a bit hazy, I can now assure you that this is no dream. Just why I would stand still by the side of the hole into which I had poured water in the hope of drowning out a ground squirrel, and watch that snake slither up through the grass, coil and strike, before going down the hole, has always been something for me to ponder.

It was said in the old days that snakes would charm their prey—mesmerize a bird so that it could not fly away. Well, here for once was a “charmed” fledgling that did “fly” away—too late. The charm was broken the moment the snake struck, and though I was only six years old, my brother Charley said I let out a terrific yell, and cleared a wagon road in one jump. Even now I wonder does one ever get so frightened that both mind and body refuse to function?

And here is a solemn truth you will likely find hard to believe. For several years thereafter, come August and dogdays, my right leg would become spotted like that rattlesnake. In a previous article I told of this same rattlesnake encounter, and my Aunt Nancy Porter asked me why didn’t I mention the fact of those recurrent spots? I told her that I didn’t want to weaken the story with anything hard to swallow, however true it might be. Then she said, “Well-I, could tell them that it is true, that your mother—” her sister—”told me that it was the gospel truth.” And there were no better Baptists than that pair. Still, in this day of freedom of thought, you can doubt it if you wish — but you would be wrong.

WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE Little Josephine Cole, not yet three years old, trying to catch an evasive cat in our home, shocked her Aunt Myrtle by saying, “Damn that cat.” My wife was telling Mrs. Morrison, our neighbor, about it, When Dick Morrison, the husband, spoke up saying, “I said those very Words about our damned old cat while the child was over here yesterday.” It has wisely been said: “Out of the mouths of babies come Words we shouldn’t have said in the first place.”

DONE IN CALIFORNIA Not Hitherto Published—1948.

By John T. Bristow

As sequel to the foregoing old-time cattle riding story-experienced in my younger days on the gently undulating plains of Northeast Kansas, I here record a contrasting up-to-date cattle riding experience I recently had on a far away mountain range. But in this last ride I did not race my horse and crack my whip for the sheer fun of it—as of yore.

Until Sunday, April 18, 1948, I had not been on a horse for fifty-five years—not since the opening of the Cherokee Strip, September 16, 1893, at noon, when, with my brother Dave, and Dr. David H. Fitzgerald, and Charley Rice, I rode sixteen miles in fifty-six minutes to locate a claim on Turkey creek, seven miles southwest of the present city of Enid, Oklahoma. In that race we were led—for a price — by “Ranaky Bill,” an Oklahoma outlaw.

While going up the mountain, the name of other notorious outlaws—the Daltons—was mentioned by my nephew, Sam Bristow, with whom I was riding. Sam owns “Dalton Mountain,” some sixty miles east of Fresno, California, where it is said those desperadoes were in hiding a long time ago.

The Dalton gang of bank robbers—following in the wake of the Jesse James gang whose hideout was in Missouri — operated mainly, I believe, in Kansas and the Indian Territory, in the late ‘80’s. At any rate, the Dalton bank robbers came to grief at Coffeyville in southern Kansas, with three of the gang killed by a sharp-shooting local hardware merchant, and law enforcement officers. Grat and Bob Dalton were killed. Emmett Dalton was badly shot up — was captured, convicted, and given a life sentence. President Theodore Roosevelt pardoned him. I have a faint recollection that sometime prior to the Coffeyville raid, the news dispatches stated that the Daltons—under assumed names—had shipped their horses to the Far west. And it is not at all improbable that our old-time Kansas and Indian Territory band of desperadoes rode their horses to the saddle-back near the top of my nephew’s 3500 foot mountain, from which eminence they could have guarded the approach in all directions.

Dalton Mountain is an attraction for patrons of a large Dude Ranch close by, in the Kings river area—something to talk about only. No dude could ride a horse up that mountain—particularly none of the thirty New York “dude” girls who rode the canyon trails thereabout for several weeks, recently.

Also, I recall the time when Jim Dalton, after killing Sheriff Charley Batterson and escaping from the Marysville jail, was captured by a posse led by Constable Charley Andrews, near the Buening school, eight miles southwest of Wetmore—my home town. After serving time, it was said, Jim Dalton went to Los Angeles and made an honorable “killing” in the manufacture of ovens for bakeries. I do not know if he was a member of the old gang. Probably not. But it has often been considered that he was.

But we were not riding via a series of switchbacks to the top of Dalton Mountain especially to view that historic spot. From the saddle-back, looking to the north down a tree-studded canyon, and looking back over the trail we had traveled, we could see at a glance much of Sam’s 1480 acres, of mountain pasture land, trees and rocks. And from this lookout we could locate nearly all of his ninety-eight head of cattle that had wintered there during the worst winter drought that California has had in eighty years, while other valley ranchmen were feeding $40 hay to $100 cattle, or shipping their stock to pastures in other states—some to the wheat fields of Western Kansas. The north slope of Dalton mountain, shielded from the burning sun, is what saved the day for Sam. Campbell mountain, almost in Sam’s dooryard, was picked bare. Sam bought fifteen of the cattle taken off that range. In his pasture, those newly purchased cattle did not graze with the other stock. And this is where the trained McNabb shepherd dog, Spike, comes in. I shall give Spike a line, later.

When Sam was saddling the horses before loading them in the truck for the 35 mile drive up into the mountains, from his 80-acre valley ranch, his wife—Anna—came out to the barnyard, and said to me, “Don’t let Sam talk you into making that hard ride all the way up to the top of the mountain. When you get tired, turn around and come back.” Excellent advice—but that was the one thing I couldn’t do. We were already coming down when I began to tire, and a quick reflection on Anna’s injunction told me that to turn around then would have availed me nothing. And though I had had it done to me many times in my younger days, that hard four hours horseback ride up the mountain and back did not produce the saddle-weary spots my relatives were expecting.

For identification purposes, let’s say Sam’s son Robert, 21-year-old ex-GI, an exemplary young man, and Sam’s daughter Virginia Anne, 13 years old, each own a dog — Spike and Curley. When loading the horses into the truck both dogs were “rearing” to go. Spike, the trained cattle dog, told us by signs and in perfectly understandable dog language that he wanted to ride in the cab. But he was forced in with the horses—and after he had made the rounds of the pasture, he climbed in with the horses without argument for the return trip. In the pasture, the dog would run ahead and spot segregated bunches of cattle, then come back, point out the stock, and stand “at attention’” awaiting orders. Sam said should he tell Spike to “Go get ‘em,” the dog would be off right now. He said it was almost impossible to get the cattle out of the hills without a trained dog. Sam paid $50 for the pup, and trained it himself.

Sam had said he would not take Virginia Anne’s dog along with us, that Curley would likely pick up a deer trail and follow it for hours, which might delay the return trip.

He planned to drive back by the Kings river road through the Dude Ranch to show me the place where the new irrigation ditch now being put through past his valley ranch — to take San Joaquin river water from the lake formed by the recently built Friant dam—goes under the Kings river, ninety feet below, through a 27 foot circular cement tube nearly three-eights of a mile in length. From the 100 foot bridge spanning the irrigation ditch one could look down 90 feet to the bottom of the ditch, and up nearly a 100 feet to the top of the ridge of dirt deposited by the big dragline. We had seen the west approach to this siphon on coming out from Fresno the evening before.

Sam says he frequently sees deer in his pasture—particularly one big buck—always before the hunting season opens, but never when he is permitted to shoot them. With the advancing years, it seems the deer, as well as man, are taking on wisdom. Hunters say that as soon as the season in California opens the deer make a break for the National Parks, where they are protected.

Sam also said that we would call on Mrs. Bert Elwood, who has lived in the canyon adjoining his pasture for a great many years—and get the facts about the Daltons. But she was not at home when we stopped, on our way out. I really wanted to obtain from her a firsthand report on the early-day cattle business, and information about the cougar menace in the low mountains years ago. I have been told that the cougars were alarmingly destructive then.

The cougars are now mostly in the high mountains, though the Fresno Bee reported two killed in the Valley last winter. Professional hunters have kept them down in recent years. It is said a professional cougar hunter named Bruce—his surname—has a pack of dogs that will track them down without fail, if the scent is not more than 72 hours old. A grown cougar will take a toll of 50 deer in one season.

Getting back to the wise deer in the parks. While “doing” the Sequoia National Park five years ago with Major Clement A. Tavares—he was in the service then, and that “Major” handle was pretty firmly fixed, but “Doctor” takes precedent now—who is the husband of my niece, Alice Bristow, I saw a deer browsing about the ranger camp. The Major took a “movie” of it while it was walking in front of a giant Sequoia tree. A Ranger told me it was a “wild” deer that had never been in captivity. And I saw deer at several places by the roadside so close that I could have almost touched them. Also we saw two young bucks “sparring” almost under the General Grant big tree. The Major turned his camera on them.

Again, yesterday, we saw deer in the Yosemite Valley. My brother Theodore shooed one away from a foot-path where it was nonchalantly nibbling a mushroom. Deer are very tame in the valley.

The Yosemite Falls, seen at their best on Sunday, May 23, 1948, with Yosemite creek in flood from melting snow, did not look to be 2425 feet in height; not until we got up close enough to be sprayed — good. Even the foot-path through the grove seemed to grow in length, as we walked toward the Falls.

Many, many years ago, I heard Eugene May lecture on the beauty and immensity of Yosemite Valley at the Methodist Church in Wetmore. When it came to describing the Falls, he got up on his toes, reached for the sky—literally soaring up, up, up, in an unbelievable manner. Now I find the Falls and other notable sights in the valley all that May said they were—and then some. There are six separate falls pouring into the valley.

Nothing looks its size up in the High Country. The far famed tunnel drive through the big Sequoia tree in the Mariposa Big Tree Grove, is deceiving. It looked as if it would be a tight squeeze for the car, but after passing through with room to spare, I could easily believe a cattle truck might pass through it.

While driving in the Grove, with the big trees standing surprisingly close together, the Doctor said he had been pretty much all over the world, and had seen nothing to compare with this wonderful Grove. Just imagine a tree 33 foot through standing 300 feet high.

When I first went up into the Sierra Nevada Mountains, years ago—when automobiles were first coming into general use—trees were hitched on behind the cars to hold them back while coming down the mountain. And there was a sizable wood-yard at the foothills—product of those drags.

Five years ago, I came down from the Sequoia National Park with Major Tavares, when he put the machine in low gear and eased it down ever so gently. But now, with everything in California moving along in high gear, the tendency is to open ‘er up, and let ‘er drop down at an alarming rate of speed.

Last Sunday the Doctor—yes, it was the Doctor now — brought me safely down from the Mariposa Big Tree Grove, at a fast clip—a drop of nearly 8,000 feet in 65 miles of winding hairpin curves, done in less than that many minutes, the speedometer showing 65 to 70 miles all the way. And I had been told that his wife Alice was the best driver in the San Joaquin valley.

The Park roads are really wonderful—built at the right pitch for safety, at every turn.

The Doctor, with Alice and their two children, Clemie, eight, and Myrna, three, plan to fly in June to Honolulu—the Doctor’s birthplace. He is not Hawaiian, however. Alice has invited me to accompany them—but as I have always believed air travel unsafe, I declined, with thanks.

But now, after Sunday, I think I would not balk at anything—let come what may.

THE OLD SWIMMING HOLE Published in Wetmore Spectator January 3, 1936

By John T. Bristow

Other things may be submerged in the whirlpool of life and forgotten, but memory of the old swimming hole, no matter where it was, or in what generation, lives long.

Now comes a letter from one of the old “boys” living in another state calling for elaboration of that tanyard gang’s doings. Combining the old swimming hole with the tanyard and our circus layout—they were closely connected — he mentions them as likely material for a story. A “funny” story, he suggests.

Allright, Buddy. You shall have it. But I must warn you, Old Pal, that you will, like as not, have the jitters instead of a laugh. But you have asked for it. As the desired mirth-provoking story, this one will likely be a flop. Buddy must know that while those old escapades, incidents, or what-nots, always carry well with the ones who have lived them, when transported in word-pictures across the years to a new audience, by a limping artist, they very often fail to click.

Halfway convinced that I could still be murdered for this thing, I have decided to write a few paragraphs about the old swimming hole and the gang—and some girls. However, I do not falter. Going on the theory that when the sweetness of life is over what comes after cannot greatly matter, I assume the risk—deliberately court danger.

Regardless of the ever-present smell, that tanyard, located in a bend of the creek just west of where the town bridge is now, was made a sort of rendezvous for all the town boys. A dam was constructed across the creek, and there was a Damsite Company, fully officered. The pond — long, wide, and eight feet deep made a fine swimming hole.

Michael Norton, a diminutive Irish boy, was our life-saver. Shy of qualifications, he was given the post for no good reason at all—unless it was that his willingness greatly exceeded his size. Michael was a queer lad. He always crossed himself three times before going into the water, and his lips would work in a funny little way without saying anything. Furthermore, it was characteristic of the little fellow to round out his sentences—especially when earnestness or excitement spurred — with, “so I will,” or with, “so he did.” And sometimes it would characteristic of the little fellow to round out his sentences—especially when earnestness or excitement spurred — with, “so I will,” or with, “so he did.” And sometimes it would be “You bet.”

E D Woodburn

Lawyer

HOLTON, KANSAS

January 21 1936

Mr. John T. Bristow, Wetmore, Kansas

Dear John:--

This morning I took time to read “THE OLD* SWIMMING HOLE” which you wrote for the Wetmore Spectator. As usual, you are very interesting and your article will be enjoyed by all of the citizens of Wetmore and community who lived there in the long ago.

It is too bad, John, that you ever quit the paper business. It seems to me that you naturally belong to that honorable “tribe.’* I have laid away your articles as I will enjoy reading them again and again. I have often heard it said that it is one of the signs of old age when one begins to hark back to our childhood days. Maybe so. I am not denying that age 13 probably creeping upon you, but I still insist that I “am as young as I used to be.” We try to keep in touch with the younger generation and to be and become interested in the things of today but, in fairness and in strict honesty with ourselves, we will have to admit that you and I and others of our age are inclined “to cast our eyes, like a flashing meteor, forward into the past.”

Keep it up, John, and when you have anything to write remember, I will appreciate a copy of the good old Wetmore Spectator containing your article.

Yours very truly,

E. D. Woodburn

At that time the deep slough south of the railroad tracks, instead of turning abruptly at Kansas avenue and paralleling that street to the creek as it does now, flowed straight across to a point fifty yards down stream. The narrow strip of land between slough and creek formed the north bank of the old swimming hole. Trees and bramble shut out public gaze fairly well, but they did not make a dependable screen against prying eyes.

Ten yards farther down stream from the mouth of the slough was the old ford. Still farther down stream there was then and is now a mammoth elm tree that has budded and shed its leaves sixty times since that day. Tramped firm by cow hoofs, and free of weeds, this bit of ground marked the spot where our townspeople often went for a few hours loll in the shade, and where in the surrounding grove even picnics were sometimes held. It was here also where, on one Independence Day, a fine English lady from the old Colony essayed to pet a horse on its nether end and was kicked in the bread-basket. It was so phrased by our elders then.

In the old days there was in use in the church a hymn-book containing a song entitled “Beautiful Gates Ajar.” “Dutch” Charley Kumbash, with the jarring note of the horse’s vengeance and the lady’s name fixed in mind, said: “It wass now for her the Peu-ti-ful Kates Achar.” The lady was a Mrs. Gates, daughter of John Radford—later, Mrs. “Paddy” Ryan.

Starting from the friendly shade of that great elm, where they had gone to while away a little time, and stopping at the old ford for a wade in the water, a bevy of girls, wandering aimlessly about, fell upon the boys’ domain.

Willie sent out a low whistle of warning. Eyes from all parts of the pond swept the opening down stream. Girls coming—a lot of them, too many to count. The boys ducked. Henry, who chanced to be in the top of a small elm tree ready for a dive, found the bottom of the pond with his proboscis in no time. One crafty little fellow, well plastered with mud, was caught wholly unawares, taking his siesta on the bank, cut off from the pond. As one having lost all sense of decency, he darted this way and that way in front of the girls—and then, like an ostrich, hid his head in the low forks of a tree, with back exposed to company. Well now, maybe it is that the ostrich, when he sticks his head in the sand, hopes that he might be taken for another bird. Shall I name this ostrich imitator? Well—maybe later.

“Let them come!” yelled Henry Callahan, in a braggadocio way. “Who cares! We used to swim with the Peters girls—and that didn’t kill us.”

“Yeah,” drawled Timothy Doble, in his usual draggy voice, “but remember, we had our pants on then—and that made a lot of difference.”

Timothy was so right about this. It certainly did make a lot of difference. Incidentally, I may say I have not thought of this boy for a long time. And Gaskel was his me—not Doble. But the boys all called him Doble because he was at one time—a considerable time—in a fair way to have Archibald Doble for a stepfather. However, Bill Kerr, young school teacher, stepped in and married the widow Gaskel, who was nearly twice his own age. That marriage did not endure.

Before going on with the main show, let us go back little—maybe a year, maybe two or three years. This tanyard pool brought the swimming hole a mile and a quarter closer to town—and it was hailed with delight by le barefoot boys. Prior to this, the town boys did their swimming in the “prairie pools” out south. But the pools had their bad features—hazards fraught with disturbing elements.

In the first place, one-third of the distance to the pools was across the big bottom south of Spring creek which skirts the town. The bottom was covered with a rank growth of sloughgrass, and, in the early summer months — the natural time for swimming—after the grass had burned off, needle-pointed stubs were very damaging bare, feet, and caused utterances of many an “ouch” and not infrequently a “damnit”—and this unholy language emanating from youngsters barely past the trundle-bed stage. But the little sinners could swim—every one of them.

The prairie pool patronized most, if it were not filled with soil, as are all the other pools now, would be close to the public road, on the Grant Dale forty acres—open territory then. Directly north of this was the Barney Peters forty-acre isolated prairie farm. We could always count being accompanied by one or more of the four Peters — Bill, George, Jim, and John. And on rare occasions two Peters girls, Bertha and Mary, would invade our privacy.

The pool was about 50 by 25 feet in dimensions with a minimum depth of eight feet. It was edged with a sort of “greasewood” growth of brush which grew in clusters at the water’s edge three feet below the rim. Often water snakes could be seen sunning themselves on branches which curved out over the water. It was a most disquieting feeling to have one of those four-foot fellows slither across one’s back. They were not poisonous. Still they were snakes.

The Peters girls did not often come upon the scene. But when they did, it was more disturbing than to be raked over the back by those snakes. The south side of the pool offered the best place for the snakes to sun themselves — and as soon as the water was agitated by the bathers coming in from the north side, as they always did, the snakes would drop off into the water and make, blindly, for the opposite side and disappear under the north bank. Some of the snakes seemed to sleep more soundly than others, and, on a good day, the snake parade to the north side, while not continuous was, seemingly, never ended. Were it true, as claimed in the old days, that those snakes passing over one’s back would make hair grow wherever they touched the bare skin, I would have more hair on my back than I now have on my head.