Chapter XIII (2)

A few days after Bill's return, another herd happened along and I did considerable business with them, selling what goods they needed, and buying several head of injured cattle which I tended to in the customary manner. It happened that they had an extra man with them and I hired him. I put him on the wagon and sent him after more supplies. I kept Bill with me as I was determined not to remain alone in that locality. When the herd had gone forward on the drive, we went out to look after our own stock, and found them as well as could be expected. Shortly after our return to camp, we saw a horseman coming towards us, and I concluded we were going to have some more company. When he rode up, I invited him to dismount, as that was the custom of the country. He thanked me, but declined, saying that he was in a hurry, that he had had some trouble with the Comanche Indians, in which there was some shooting done, that he would like to get a fresh horse to push on his way. I saw that he was pretty well upholstered in the matter of armament, as he had two six-shooters in his belt and a winchester in his scabbard and looked, as though he would be able to protect himself. I asked him no questions as the condition of his horse told the story as plainly as any words he might use. The spur marks on the pony's sides showed that his vitality was about expended and that he would not be able to go much farther. When he asked if I could supply him with a new mount, I told him I could furnish one. I asked Bill to change his saddle for him, and gave him some directions to guide him towards a cow ranch. He proposed leaving his horse with me as a guaranty that he would return mine to me. I told him that was out of the question, that if the Comanches came along and found his horse with me they would conclude that I had hidden him somewhere, which would mean trouble for me, a thing I did not want just then, especially with the Indians. I told him to take his pony along with him and if he could not keep up with the fresh one, to turn him loose upon the prairie and some cow-puncher would take him in and care for him until called for. He put a hackamaw on his jaded steed, mounted his fresh pony and made ready to start. I told him not to spare the quirt, as the horse could stand a good dash, and that he would be at the ranch in a little over an hour if he rode steadily. He was off in the direction I gave him, and Bill and I set in to make a checker board to while away our idle hours. Something shortly afterward attracted our attention, and on looking up we beheld three Comanche Indians riding towards our tent, with their rifles across their saddles, which meant business. I spoke to Bill and he stepped into the tent and buckled on a pair of six-shooters. I happened to have my winchester near at hand. When they rode up close enough for us to see plainly what they were doing, they stopped and began to make signs. I could not understand the Comanche sign language, so they had to resort to some other means of communication. They drew closer and one of them said 'How,' the second one grunted something and the third remained silent. Bill and I went on making our checker board apparently oblivious of their presence, but all the while I kept my eye on the rifle with an occasional glance out of the corner of my eye at the Indians. Finally one of them spoke in broken English and asked if a white man had been there. I told them a white man had stopped for a short time, but went north, and I pointed out the trail. After they had sat in silence for some time, they wheeled their ponies around and galloped off. It would not take much of a genius to see that their visit was not a friendly one, and that they were looking for trouble, and particularly wanted to see a certain white man that had passed that way shortly before. If they could not find the object of their desires, they would likely make some trouble for some innocent party. As they saw that Bill and I were pretty well furnished with fire arms, they thought it better to pursue the object of the search. I knew that, by this time, the pursued was beyond the reach of the pursuers and was likely safe among the cowboys of some neighboring ranch, where the Indian would not follow him. The Indian had a wholesome respect for cow-ranches and did not care to go prowling around that locality, for at that particular time the cowman had lost all respect for the Indian's feelings. As we did not know at what time they would return, if they ever did, nor did we know what humor they would be in, though we could give a shrewd guess, Bill and I thought it better to make what efforts were necessary to protect ourselves and our stock in the event of their returning with designs, upon us, or our cattle. We took our blankets and guns and spent the night on the prairie near our horses. During the vigil we were keeping we heard some horsemen passing and concluded the Indians were returning from their white-man hunt.

Next forenoon a line rider came over to see us, bringing with him the horse we had loaned the visitor who was in such a hurry. He said that he had seen nothing of the Indians at the ranch. He said that the fugitive horseman had received a new mount at his ranch and had gone on his way, but did not fail to send back his compliments saying that he was grateful for the kindness we had shown him and hoped some day to be able to repay it.

That afternoon, the herd, from which the fugitive above mentioned had taken his departure, arrived in our neighborhood, and from the boys of the outfit I learned the particulars of the whole occurance. The foreman gave me all the information in the case, and I shall detail it here. He said that the Indians had met them over in the Comanche country and had made their usual demand for "Wohaw." As he had given one steer already down in the Red River district, he did not feel obliged to yield to their demands for a second contribution. In order to get rid of them, and at the same time to make a peace-offering he said he would let them have another. That did not satisfy the Indians and they started for the herd to cut out what they wanted. That was the thing that brought matters to a focus. They might have known that their presence in the herd would cause a stampede. When they persisted in doing so in spite of the warning to desist, then came the signal for the disturbance which followed.

The first steer they cut out from the herd was met and driven back by a young fellow by the name of McRay. An Indian tried to prevent his driving the steer back to the herd. That spelled disaster for the Indian, for the young fellow drew his forty-five and shot the Indian off his pony. All was confusion for a brief space, but no more shooting took place. The Indians picked up their wounded comrade and bore him away as fast as they could, and then the herd moved on. McRay, acting on the advice of the foreman, sought safety in flight towards the north. That was the fugitive that came to my tent in search of a fresh pony. If he had remained with the herd, serious trouble would have resulted, and if they had caught him in his flight, he would likely have been scalped, if not subjected to other barbarities.

I am not going to say anything about the merits of the case as it stood, but will say that if the same conditions existed today, the same would occur again.

As on the arrival of the former herds, we made another bargain for some of the foot-sore cattle, and after doctoring them to the best of our ability, we turned them in with the rest of our stock.

We did considerable business with the foreman of the outfit. After getting what goods he wanted, he moved onward with his herd.

When they had gone, I saddled Old Jimmie and took a ride down to where our stock was feeding along the creek, to look them over and see if they needed any attention. They seemed in good condition, so I rode on, more for pastime than with any object in view. When I had passed a mile or so beyond where our herd was grazing peacefully, I saw something that I could not account for, and proceeded to make an investigation. As I drew nearer to the object of my curiosity I found an Indian sitting on the bank of the creek. I was rather surprised to see that he had no pony in sight, nor were there any other Indians in view. I approached him with the purpose of making a closer scrutiny of this lone denizen of the plains. His wardrobe consisted of a breech-clout, a pair of moccasins, and three feathers in his hair. I rode up to him and saluted him with the customary Indian "How." He made no reply, did not give even a grunt of recognition. I studied him carefully for awhile. I noted that his hair was well braided and hung down his back, and was tipped with strips of Beaver fur. I rode on a short distance, and returned again to take another look at him. I addressed him as before, with the same result. He set me thinking very seriously as he had no fire-arms and no pony. I thought that, perhaps, he might be one of the three that had visited me the day they chased the cowboy.

When I returned to camp I found a visitor, a line-rider. I explained to him and Bill what I had seen, and the line-rider volunteered the explanation that the Indian was a runner, or what one would call a mail-carrier and was likely carrying some message to the Caddos, perhaps, an invitation to a green corn dance, or some other festivity. His appearance there had no further significance, so I let the matter drop. In the meantime, Bill was busying himself cooking some venison the cowboy had killed, getting ready for our next repast, which was about due. While waiting for Bill to put the finishing touches on his work of art, we amused ourselves with a game of checkers. When luncheon was ready we abandoned the checker board with alacrity and threw ourselves very earnestly into the work of demolishing what Bill had taken so much care to prepare.

A strong friendship had sprung up between Bill and Nero. It was very much like the story of Mary and her little lamb, wherever Bill went, there was Nero at his heels. Such devotion was very touching, but in Bill's case it was almost too touching for it nearly cost him his life. As my partner was not much given to riding horseback, any more than he could help, he used to divert himself by taking a stroll over the prairie, and of course, the dog was at his heels. It amused Bill to see the dog chasing jack rabbits, or diving at prairie dogs, but both species seemed to have an uncanny way of avoiding his onslaughts. He never caught any of them. One day as he was tearing around after a rabbit, a herd of wild cattle came over the brow of the hill. The dog was heading for them straight as an arrow; barking and cavorting in a fashion wonderful to see. Any man who has had any experience with wild cattle will know what danger my friend and partner encountered at that point. Wild cattle are curious, and when they see a man afoot, they begin to investigate immediately, and therein lies the danger. If anything were to excite them at the moment they would trample him to death. That was just about what was due to happen to Bill as the dog had excited them and they were coming toward the man afoot. The idea of self-preservation struck Nero about the same time as the cattle began to move toward Bill, and he rushed to his master to save him. The cowboys added to the pandemonium already turned loose, by trying to shoot Nero. I always kept a horse saddled at the camp for an emergency, and when I heard the commotion, I mounted and set out at full gallop to the scene of action. I was just in time, for there was Bill hitting only the high places in his flight for safety. I met him and he needed no invitation to mount behind me, but caught the horn of the saddle and swung himself up with alacrity and away we went at top speed. The danger was not entirely passed, for there right behind us was Nero, the cause of a great part of the trouble. Bill pulled his gun and shot the dog. That itself seemed to check the herd, but we had a narrow escape. One stumble of the horse, and we would both have been trampled into such small pieces that there would be left only a damp spot on the ground where we had fallen. However, we were safe and that was the chief thing for us. We saddled our ponies and went to help the cowboys round up the herd that had become scattered through the playful antics of Nero. As it was time to eat when we had got the cattle back on the trail and quieted down, we joined the cowmen in their meal. There was considerable joking and laughing over our predicament, but they said not one word about the danger we encountered in our flight before the stampede.

As this was an opportunity for us to do business again, we took advantage of it. Bill bought some of the footsore stock, and I sold them provisions to last them until they could find a more convenient market.

When the outfit had gone northwards, things began to assume the monotonous routine of dull times. We did the best we could to entertain ourselves with checkers and talking over prospects, but it was not very exciting at best. From a business point of view it seemed a success, and we thought it advisable to establish ourselves in a dugout and make a lengthy stay of it. The prospects were good, the success of the past argued well for the future, but "The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft aglee."

Next morning I rode down to take a look at our growing herd and had not gone very far when I found that one of my cattle had been killed. I dismounted to examine the carcass more closely and found evidence that the cow had been killed by some wild animal. I could not say what animal had killed her as the manner of attack was entirely different from any I have ever seen. It was not a gray wolf, as I was familiar with their mode of destruction. I examined the ground and found the foot-prints of two animals, one large and one small. I followed their trail for some distance and found where they had been rolling in the sand after their feast. I endeavored to follow it farther, but it was soon lost in the long buffalo grass, and I had to give up the task.

I returned to camp and reported the matter to my partner, and he said that he would fix things for them. He concluded that if he put strychnine in the carcass they had already killed, they would come again, and in that way he would rid us of the intruders. We applied the strychnine in the most approved fashion laid down by old hunters and trappers, but it was in vain. Next night they returned and killed another steer, but did not go near the one they had killed before. As we were looking over the result of the night's work, a line-rider came by, and we explained the situation to him. He said the mischief had been wrought by a cougar, or Mexican lion, and that it was useless to try to poison him as he would not eat anything in the nature of flesh except what had been freshly killed by himself. Furthermore, he said, they had been attracted by our cattle because, being footsore, they could not put up a fight to defend themselves, and thus fell an easy prey to the marauders. We saw at once that there was only one way out of the difficulty and that was to shoot the lions, as they seemed to wary to be taken by poison. If we did not take that course, we would soon be out of cattle. With that end in view we moved them up in the neighborhood of our tent. We made a temporary corral for them, and awaited an opportunity to send a bullet into the expected visitor. He came as usual, but we did not get a shot at him, as he did not give us a chance. I wish to say that in all my experience I have never met, in Canada or in the West, another animal so cowardly and treacherous as the Mexican lion. I have known them to kill an animal not more than four rods from where I was sitting, and before I could reach the corral, he would be out of sight. I could not shoot towards the corral for fear of killing or crippling some of the stock. I have known them to kill a two-year-old steer, and by the time I could get there the cougar was gone, but the attack was so swift and sure that the poor beast would be still standing with his entrails hanging on the ground. That gives some idea of how short a time it takes a cougar to kill a cow. In spite of all his great strength, he is a great coward, as he will not face a man. I tried to rid myself of the pest that was thinning out my herd, and devoted a good deal of time in trying to find his den, to get a shot at him, but my efforts were to no purpose. I had to do the best I could, watch and wait, in the hope of success.

While engaged in the hunt for the cougar one afternoon, I saw, at some distance, a horse grazing along the creek. He had a saddle and bridle on him, but no rider. I thought he had run away from some outfit, and went down to where he was to secure him and bring him to my tent, so that the owner could call for him when he had time. Upon reaching the place where the pony was grazing, I saw a strange sight. There sat an Indian on a knoll, wearing a Navajoe blanket, ear-rings that hung down like small sleigh bells, his hair plaited and hanging down his back, his head decorated with eagle feathers, all of which made me think I had met a very distinguished gentleman. As a neighbor I greeted him with the customary, "How." To my greeting he made no sign of recognition, did not even move a muscle. I rode past him for some distance and then returned on the opposite side of him, and then I discovered the cause of his sullen dignity. He had fastened to his blanket a small-sized pewter plate polished as bright as a new dollar fresh from the mint, and around the rim of it was inscribed the letters of the alphabet. I saw that he had left his rifle in the scabbard of his saddle, and if he made any move of a warlike nature, I could do a lot of business before he could get organized for battle. This condition made me bolder and encouraged me to make a more critical inspection of his wardrobe than I would have done if he had his winchester near at hand. He wore a pair of moccasins highly ornamented with beads of all colors. Whether he had any under garments I was not in position to know, but he looked to be clothed in the highest degree of cool, calm, unruffled dignity. As I had seen no cartridge belt on the saddle, I was satisfied that he wore one around his waist, with the customary pair of six shooters for ornaments and use. As he remained stolid in his attitude towards me, I gave up any hope of finding out anything about him, and rode home. I related my experience to Bill, laughing over the dignity displayed by the Indian, based on the possession of a pewter breast-plate that once belonged to some white child, and which he had found on his meanderings over the plains.

After a quarter of a century has elapsed, and taking a retrospective view of the situation at that time, I can see what a trifle it would have taken to send one of us, if not both, over the Great Divide to the Happy Hunting Grounds.

Bill had been out in another direction in search of the cougar, but met with as little success as I had. It became a question of sitting up nights guarding the herd, with the hope of being able to get a shot at the cause of our misfortunes, but it was in vain. Every morning brought us evidence of further devastation wrought by the bloodthirsty brute. Things came to such a pass that we had to choose between losing the whole herd, or moving to Kansas, and we chose the latter.