Early, Texas - Trail Drivers of Texas : Interesting Sketches of Early Cowboys and The (part 10 of 20)

I have seen and participated in many unpleasant things during my sixty years of active life, but I think they are best forgotten. I do not think it would be amiss, however, to mention some of the hardships and examples of self-denial endured by the people of the early days. During the Civil War our family and all of our neighbors were compelled to make almost everything they used or wore ; all ropes were made from hides or horse hair, all of our clothing was spun and woven at home, and I have carded and spun many nights until late bedtime. Leather was tanned by the settlers with bark from oak trees and used to rig saddles and for other purposes. Our shoes were made by country shoemakers ; our saddle trees were made at home; we used water from creeks and rivers. Before the country was stocked all the streams contained pure, clear water. We carried corn in sacks on horseback fifteen to twenty-five miles to mills to be ground into meal, or ground the coi'n at home with small hand grist mills ; wagons, ox yokes, looms and spinning wheels were made at home; hats were plaited and made from palmetto. The rich and the poor in our days were on equal footing, because these necessities could not be bought. As I look back to those times I am impressed with the marvelous changes time has wrought. The people of those good old days were brave and fearless, but if a high-powered automobile had gone speeding through the country at night with its bright headlights glaring and its horn screeching, I am sure the inhabitants would all have taken to the brush, thinking it was some supernatural monster.

Their intelligence and traits of character are not surpassed by any people on earth, because they are quick to learn, quick to act, brave, honest and true to God and country. A quarter of a century of my life, from 1861 to 1886, was a continual chain of thrills, not by choice, but by the customs of those times. The dangers through which I passed during those days make me shudder when I recall them, but I attribute my preservation to the earnest prayers of my devoutly religious father and mother, who continually entreated Almighty God to protect their reckless boy. They taught me to trust in the Divine Father from infancy, and their admonitions have continued with me to this day, never dimmed but brightening as the years pass. I do not claim to have followed their teachings to the letter, but the training I received at their knees has been a guide and great support to me through life. Had I not received this early training to fortify me against the many temptations I cannot think what would have been the outcome.

I want to say a word about some of the men with whom I have been associated during my business career, for I feel that such affiliation has contributed to my success in the business world. As good fortune would have it, I fell in with the best men of our country, men of honesty and integrity, and leaders in the affairs of county and state. They helped me to attain that which I think I now possess, a good name, which is '^rather to be chosen than great riches." They were loyal at all times, and ever ready to advise and assist me.

And right here I want to pay a tribute to the noble women of our land, for they are more deserving of praise than all of the men combined. Consider the pioneer mothers and wives of our glorious state, and think of the hardships and privations they endured for the sake of being near and helping husband or father to make a home in the new country. Their social pleasures were few, their work heavy. Dangers lurked on every hand, but bravely and uncomplainingly these women endured tlieir hard lot, cheering and encouraging the men who were their protectors. God bless them! I often heard it said in the days of my youth that the women were the hope of our nation. They have fulfilled that hope in every sense of the term, and I believe they will ever continue to do so.

I was the first man to introduce roping contests in this state some thirty years ago, but the practice was so badly abused and so many cattle crippled and killed, that I regretted the introduction, so accordingly in after years I was the first to petition the Legislature to pass a law prohibiting the sport.

From 1868 to 1895 it is estimated that fully 35,000 men went up the trail with herds, if the number of men computed by the number of cattle driven is correct. Of this number of men about one-third were negroes and Mexicans, another third made more than one trip. Let us conclude that one-half of the white trail drivers who made one trip have died, and we still have some 6,000 survivors of the trail scattered all over the world, all of whom ought to be members of our association. This would give us the strength to forever perpetuate our organization, for as it is now our sons are eligible to membership and they in turn can make their sons and grandsons eligible as they grow to manhood. I have urged the organization of the old trail drivers for thirtyfive years. Many of my old comrades promised to participate in the organization, but it was put off from time to time, until 1915, when I called a few together and started the movement which has steadily grown until today I feel that my efforts in this matter have been in a large measure successful. If we had organized earlier, however, I am sure we would have preserved the record of many of our old comrades who have crossed over the Great Divide, and retained much of the trail slang and customs that have passed away.

I have carefully read most of the sketches that appear in this book. They tend to show that the early settlers and old trail drivers did more toward the development of this state than all other things combined, and it wonld be the father of all mistakes to allow the record of these men to go down in unwritten history. Therefore, this book was prepared to preserve that record. My greatest wish is that the proceeds from the sale of the book will be used for the purpose of erecting a monument, one hundred feet high, to the drivers of the famous old trail, somewhere on the trail near San Antonio or Fort Worth.

Mrs. Lou Gore

She took charge of the Drovers' Cottage in the Spring of '68 and conducted this Hotel for many years. In a brief time it was learned that in the person of the new Landlady of the Cottage Hotel the Drovers had a true sympathetic friend and in their sickness a true guardian and nurse, one whose kind, motherly heart was ever ready to provide for every proper want, be they hungry, tired, thirsty or sick, it mattered not, she was the Florence Nightingale to relieve them. Many of the Old Trail Drivers remember Mrs. Gore and often speak of her as a most Noble Lady. Miss Maragret Gore, a daughter of Mrs. Lou Gore, is living at McPherson, Kansas. She was located last year through a letter written to Mrs. Amanda Burks of Cotulla, the Queen of The Old Trail Drivers' Association. Geo. "W. Saunders, President of the Old Trail Drivers' Association, has been corresponding with Miss Gore. She has promised to attend our reunion November the 6th to 8th this Fall, 1924. President Saunders has made Miss Gore an honorary

The Prairie

I was born in Georgia and reared in Texas, my father settling in Tyler County. In December, 1870, I went to Helena, and while I was there a young man named Silvers was killed by the sheriff. M. J. Bean was collector for the stockmen and I went with him on one of his trips. As we crossed the Frio Eiver we saw a number of people congregating at a little house and learned from them that the Indians had the day before murdered the Stringfield family. Th3 oldest girl was later found by Mexicans, and she is now living in San Antonio. Two little boys, aged four and six years, respectively, were taken away by the Indians and the oldest of the two was found dead by the roadside with his head split open, but the other was never heard from.

The following spring I hired to an outfit to go to Kansas with a herd which we received in the mountains about fifty miles above Uvalde. While we were herding the cattle in the valley Indians would appear on the mountains and bow to us and make signs which we did not understand. I went out one day to hunt for a bunch of our horses and found a bunch of Indians instead. They took after me, but I outran them back to camp. I guess my eyes were out of fix, for it seemed to me that there were about a hundred redskins in the band, but investigation later proved that there were only about fifteen. Ten men of our outfit went back over the ground and found three arrows they had shot at me while in the race. About the last of March we got our herd of 1,500 beeves road-branded and, starting with them, we soon reached Red Eiver, which we crossed at Eed River Station into the Indian Territory. The Territory at that time was unsettled, nothing there except buffalo, Indians and fugitives from other states. These men would steal and rob and lay it on the Indians, so we had to guard our horses every night to prevent them from being stolen. One night a Mexican boy and myself were on guard and the Mexican struck a match to light his cigarette and as he did so somebody shot at us three times in quick succession, and when we returned the fire the boys at camp rushed out to our assistance. The scheme was to scare us away from our horses so they could get them. At Abilene, Kansas, we found a wide open town. Ben Thompson and Hill Coe were running the noted Bull Head saloon, and Wild Bill Hickok was city marshal.

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There I met up with John Wesley Hardin, Buffalo Bill Thompson, Manny Clements and Gip Clements, and we went over to the gambling house. It did not take the gamblers there long to relieve me of all the money I possessed. Wild Bill Hickok told me that the best way to beat the game was to let it alone. I took his advice and have been beating the game ever since. Coe was later killed by Wild Bill and Thompson afterward closed out the Bull Head and returned to Austin.

The next year I went up the trail with the same firm, Choate & Bennett. We received the cattle on the Nueces Eiver, with John Henry Choate in charge of the herd. When we reached Eed River at Red River Station, we had to swim across. I was riding a 2 X 4 Spanish pony, and before I got across I had to slip off his back and grasp him by the tail to get to the other side. We had a severe storm after we left Red River and a number of our men were shocked by lightning. We drove our herd to Great Bend, Kansas, on the Arkansas River. This is now one of the finest wheat belts in the world.

The next year I went with W. G. Butler to Ogallala. My oldest brother, Andy Moye, was on this trip with us and got into trouble at Ogallala that caused us to leave in somewhat of a hurry.

I went up the trail again the next year, and it seemed that we had more storms than usual. When we reached the Cimarron River in the Territory it was bankful and we had to stay there several days before we could cross. While we were there two tramps came along who said they were going to swim the river. We tried to talk them out of the foolish undertaking, but they plunged in and when half way across they began yelling for us to come and help them out, but we could not get to them and they both drowned.

On Smoky River, in the northwestern part of Kansas, myself and several other cowboys were hunting stampeded beeves one day and found tlic corpse of a cowboy who had come to his death in some manner unknown to US. We decided to bnry him there, so we dng a hole and rolled him into it, with but little burial ceremony. One of our crowd was a good singer, and sang the old cowboy song that all of the old boys are familiar with, which runs something like this :

^^Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie, Where the coyotes may howl o'er me; And dig my grave just six by three - But bury me not on the lone prairie.

Our hearts were sad when we left that poor unknown boy out there under the sod of that lonely prairie, many miles from a habitation. Some mother's boy who went away, never to return ; some husband or father, perhaps, who went out into that wild country and lost his life there.

Nearly all of my old cowboy chums of fifty years ago have passed over the trail to that home beyond the grave. A few are left here, sore-footed and dragging, but still full of life. Among those who are still in the land of the living I will mention one, for whom I have always had the highest regard and esteem, and that is P. B. Butler, who lives at Kenedy, Texas. He was always found honest and square in all of his dealings, true to his friends, and one of the best stockmen in all Southwest Texas. P. B. Butler will leave behind him a good name as a heritage to his posterity, and an example for oncoming generations to follow.

A few more of the old boys are still living near me, Munroe Hinton, Hiram Reynolds and Dick Smith being among them. Tom Edwards passed away just a short time ago. When I see my old comrades in town, bent with the weight of three-score and ten, I am reminded that my time to quit the walks of men is fast approaching, just a few years more at best, and we will all join the silent majority.

Some Things I Saw Long Ago

Here are my credentials : **I solemnly swear and affirm" that I went the length of the trail - up to Dodge City, Kansas, and from there to Pueblo, Colorado. **I further solemnly swear and affirm" that I will tell **not" all I saw and heard. Who would I It's a long time back - - to remember ; and if you remember, would you care to tell? If you cared to tell, would you dare to tell? And if you dared to tell you'd be afraid; and if you weren't afraid, you'd be '^skeered" as Helmar Jenkins Booth.

My credentials further state that I was born when quite young, in 1863, at a little ^* jumping-off-in-the-road" place called Quihi, Medina County, Texas, on what was then known as the old John Heven place. We moved later to Sturm (meaning '* storm") Hill, where I spent most of my childhood days.

Father was a stock raiser, and also took cattle on shares - attending to the handling and care of them on the open range. My sister and I were sent to school in an old school house near by, on the Klappenbach ranch, to be ^^edjicated."

As children we were warned and taught to be on the lookout for Indians. We were told wild and weird stories of massacres and how Indians would steal children and torture them; and which was not a '^ fairy story, '* but a fact. We were on our way home one evening after school when we saw in the distance a band of Indians coming in our direction. It took us but a moment to hide in a cluster of white brush. The Indians passed uncomfortably close to us on their way to some other place, as the settlement was not molested that night. They confined their raids mostly to stealing of stock, such as horses and mules. However, they did not hesitate in 'lifting a scalp'' if chance offered. Some time later Indians appeared at night and made a raid on our settlement, taking with them a number of horses, and happened to lose one of their own - a little dun pony. We took up this pony and fed him so that he was soon nice and fat. One evening we took him out to graze near the house, and had gone back some 300 yards when we saw a bunch of redskins leading away our fat little pony, and we lost no time in hiding. We found the cut hobble next morning about ten feet from where we had left the horse, and I guess the Indians had watched us and waited long enough for us to leave and then took the animal. That very night the Indians stole horses all over the settlement. They also visited a place belonging to Nic Haby. He had his horses and mules in a pen and was guarding them, hiding behind a large live oak tree. Early in the night he noticed his horses becoming restless, and directly an Indian appeared above the fence and jumped into the corral among the horses. Nic Haby was a good shot and the Indian found it out. The following morning a neighbor of Haby's came over to tell Haby his trouble with Indians and the loss of horses he had sustained, when he espied the dead Indian. He drew his dirk and plunged it into the redskin's body, exclaiming: **That is the sonof-a-gun; he stole my horses." They put a rope around the Indian's head and dragged him up on the mountain, turning him over to the mercies of the buzzards and hogs. They accorded him the same burial that the redskins gave their white victims. For a long time thereafter nobody would eat pork.

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from San Antonio to Fort Clark. There were generally from six to ten wagons making the trip at the same time, partly for protection and also for assistance which in the rainy season was quite imperative. After a trip or two I bought a three-and-a-half -inch Studebaker wagon and hitched up six animals. We freighted to Del Rio, to Eagle Pass and to Fort Clark from San Antonio, Texas. We would take out merchandise and bring back raw material - wool and hides, and sometimes a load of empty beer bottles, or **dead soldiers'' as we called them. We had some experiences with our work teams stampeding at night, and sometimes we would catch up with them next day ten or twelve miles away, homeward bound. In those days there were no graded roads; a wagon track, or a number of them, would be called a road if it had the name of its destination tacked to it. Sometimes a road would be 100 feet wide or wider, according to where the ground was most solid and suitable for travel. When the rainy spell set in the roads were almost impassable. Sometimes we hitched as many as sixteen animals to a wagon to pull it out of the mud, and would move it 100 feet or so, then hook on to the next one, until we had them all out of the mud. I have seen the time that we were camped for weeks on this side of the Frio River on account of high water and impassable roads. We had an old mule team that we used in swimming the river when going to Uvalde for bacon and meal. We had plenty of meat, such as rabbits, venison and also fish. In 1881, with the coming of the Southern Pacific Railroad, our trade went ^'blooe." I became foreman of the Judge Noonan ranch southwest of Castroville, Texas, and worked there until I went up the trail in 1884.

Ed Kaufman and Louis Schorp, both of them alive to this day, gathered a herd of some 450 head of horses in Medina County, Texas. With them were J. M. Saathoff, Ehme Saathoff, a cook by the name of Ganahl Brown, and myself. We started from Castroville and drove by way of Bandera, Kerrville and over the **old trail/' crossing the Eed River at the old Doan Store. We herded the horses the first few nights and laiter let them graze or rest during the night to themselves. We had a very wet trip, it raining almost every day while we were on the way. Feed for the horses was plentiful and our crew fared on wild game, cornbread and black coffee. We came across our first Indians when we arrived in the Indian Territory. They were very friendly and would eat tobacco and sugar ^^out of your hand." These articles were always on their mind and after their preliminary **How" they would never fail to ask for them. When the meals we were cooking were ready there would always be some ** self-invited" Indian guest or guests to fall in and help themselves and eat to their heart's content. One day an old buck rode up to me in the usual way and asked for ' ' terback. ' ' I handed him a plug and after he gave two or three of his ^^compadres" each a chew he took one himself and stuck the balance in his pocket. I argued and asked him to give me back my plug, but he said: **Pony boss, he be good," and rode off.

It was customary to pay a duty on horses crossing the reservation, and our boss paid the Indians in horses, but they also stole some twenty-five head from us before we got away from them. We did not have very much trouble with the horses, and our trip took up something like four months from Castroville, Texas, to Dodge City, Kansas. We camped with our herd about six miles south of Dodge City, on Mulberry Creek. The first thing we did when we arrived there was to go to town, get a shave and haircut, and tighten our belts by a few good strong drinks. Here I also met George W. Saunders - the same George who is now the worthy president of the '^Old Trail Drivers' Association."

While here our boss, Ed Kaufman, got summons that some important business demanded his immediate return to Medina County. He left the herd in our charge until such a time when he should return, in about 30 days. After he got back to the herd he sold it to Mr. Wilson, of Pueblo, Colorado, where he had to deliver the horses for him.

After delivery of the horses at Pueblo, Colo., I hired to Wilson, and worked for a couple of months, when I was sent back to Dodge City to receive and take charge of a herd of 3,500 head of two-year-old stocker steers for Wilson. I started the herd and the cattle would stampede every blooming night. Often in the morning we had to help from thirty to forty of the poorer steers on their feet by a tail-hold and lift. This was repeated for some eight or ten days, and we could only make from ^ve to six miles per day. We tired of herding the cattle at night, so would scatter the herd over a large area of ground to give them more elbow room. This worked like a charm, for as long as the cattle were not in close formation they would not get excited so easily - and we had no more runs.

We took the herd about sixty miles below Pueblo to the Wilson ranch, branded the 3,500 head, and six more herds which had been delivered there, amounting to another 3,500 - 7,000 head in all ; besides branding, we dewlapped every animal. We built our own pens and chutes to do this, and hard work it was. Still, we had lots of old-time pleasure to relieve the monotony. Every Saturday afternoon at two o^clock we would quit work and go to a dance, start dancing at 4 p.m. and dance till after sunrise Sunday morning. We had lots of refreshments, booze, beer and kindred ^^exhilarators." Sometimes a little shooting scrape would change the scenery, but was of passing interest. From the Wilson ranch I returned home by way of Kansas City. I remained at home a short time and took up some state land in 1885, fenced it - and then went west to Brewster and Presidio Counties, where I worked for Sam Harmon of Alpine, Texas. Harmon was a roundup boss and attended to the brand- ing and gathering of stock. The first work we did was out of the ordinary - we tried to dig a well. We blasted through 65 feet of solid rock and left a *'dry hole." Later I worked for F. Collins a long time.

In 1892 I left Alpine and went home to Medina County, got married to Johanna Schweers and settled down five miles north of Quihi - on Sturm Hill.

Ate Stolen Meat, Anyway

I was born in Bee County in 1861, so I am not as old as some of the boys who had lots of experience up the trail in the 70 's. I went up the trail to Kansas in 1880, leaving Bee County with a herd for Millett & Lane, and turned them over in the In-' dian Territory. Dave Clair and I went with Woodward & Oge, with Jim Newton as boss. Bill Hancock, a brotherin-law to Newton, was with the outfit, and as he was about my age, we fell in together somewhat. One night Dave Clair, Bill Hancock, myself and a boy from Kansas were on herd when a severe thunderstorm came up, and we drifted off with the cattle. The Kansas boy was pretty badly scared during the storm and kept saying that his people were all killed in a storm and he just knew we were going to be killed, too. Bill got excited, too, and asked me: **Did you ever prayT' I told him no, not in a long time. He said, **Some of us have got to pray, for the lightning is going to kill all of us.'' The storm increased in fury, the lightning striking near us frequently, and we got separated. When our crowd got together again we found Bill off his horse praying aloud. We found some stray cattle in our herd, cows and calves, and Bill remarked that **one of those fat calves would be good eating, if it was ours." I told him stampeded cattle in the Territory belonged to the trail and we would just take one. He said : * * No. Jim Newton will fire us if we do that, and I wouldn't eat stolen meat anyway.'' I did not care if we were fired, for I was nearly starved for fresh meat, as we had not had any since we left home, so I cut out one of those calves, ran it over to the wagon, and the cook and I killed it. Before it quit kicking I had the sweetbread on the fire. Before it was skinned the sweetbread was hot. I went back to where Bill was with some of it in my hand and told him to go and help himself, but he said, **I'll go and get some coffee, but I won't eat any of that beef," but he came back about daylight with a chunk as big as his foot, and was eating it. When I went to camp I found that he had buried the head, hide and all. These stray cattle turned out to be Captain Lytle's, which had been lost the year before, and we turned them over to his outfit. After delivering our herd I went back to Mobeetie and then made two trips to Dodge City that fall with the Turkey Track outfit.

Times have changed since then. All of the boys of this generation are driving automobiles out to herds, and after riding around a little, back to town they go. The only way you can get them out to work is to go in an automobile after them, and if the job is within twenty miles of town you have to take them back to see the picture show. I guess we will soon have to take flying machines to get them out.

many years. I operated a large store in Alpine for a long time, and all I knew about the business was the price of horse shoes and Battle Axe tobacco. My clerks frequently accused me of selling goods too high or too cheap, and said about the best place for me was out among the cattle.

When A Boy Bossed A Herd

J. D. Jackson was born January 6, 1861, on Donahoe Creek in Bell County, Texas. His parents came to Texas from Louisiana in 1852, and he and his brother, J. W. J ackson, still own the old Jackson home in Bell County.

Joe Jackson, as he is commonly called, was in charge of a herd of cattle on the trail with eight or ten men working under him, at the age of eighteen. At one time he drove a herd of stock cattle more than eighty miles across the Staked Plains of West Texas without water, driving the cattle at night and resting in 'the daytime.

Several older men in the outfit thought the men and cattle would all die, so they appealed to the second boss, L. B. Wells, to *^Tell tha't d - d boy to drive day and night.'' But Wells told them that *Hhat boy" knew just how to handle that herd and would get them all to water if they would stay with him. When they were about six miles from the Pecos Eiver the cattle smelled water and made a mad rush for it. Jackson managed to stay in front of them, as he was riding a good quarter horse. As the river was up, Jackson rode in to about the center and found a sandbar and stayed there 'to turn the cattle out, for they drank almost half of the night; otherwise the cattle would have drifted down the stream with the steep banks on both sides holding them in and would have perished.

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In 1914 Joe Jackson was elected president of the Cattle Raisers' Association of Texas; was re-elected in 1915, and many of Ms friends, among whom are the biggest men in Texas, plead with him to allow his name to go before the convention for the third term, but he refused. During his administration the association grew from 2,250 to 4,000 members, retaining most of the old members.

Aside from being a benefactor to the livestock interest, Joe Jackson is reported to have done more for school children than any other man in West Texas. He has been president of the school board at his home town, Alpine, for sixteen years and has been instrumental in building up a good public school system in Texas. He began work for the Sul Ross State Normal, nine years ago and has been working until his dream came true, and it is now a large school running in reality.

Spent A Hard Winter Near Red Cloud

My experience covers a great deal of time, as I am now just past my eighty-first birthday. You, perhaps, have lived long enough to know that a man frequently forgets many things he would like to remember and remembers many things he would like to forget, but to me the memories of the Old Trail days are very pleasant, principally on the account of my good fortune to be associated with many of the pioneer cowmen of Texas, who made the country famous by their display of nerve and grey matter.

stacles and accomplish what we started out to do. My first experience on the trail was in 1866, when I drove a herd of cattle from San Marcos, in Hays County, to New Iberia, La. William Earnest owned these cattle, he put the value on them at $6.00 per head, I did the work, and we divided profits. I had with me young men with the grit necessary to accomplish this undertaking. In those days we did not discuss hardships ; it seemed to be a pleasure to accomplish our undertaking. We cooked our own food, slept on the ground, worked in the rain in daytime and at night, but all this was a pleasure. Having made a real success of my first venture, I was determined to tackle it again.

My next drive was in 1867. I took a herd of horses to Kansas and on to Waterloo, Iowa. This time I had as a financial partner L. W. Mitchell. The horses cost us $10.00 per head. We made a profit and were pleased with our results. In the year of 1871 I drove with Dock Day a herd of steers from San Marcos to Eed Cloud, Nebraska, where we concluded to winter. This was my first bad setback, for the winter was the worst I ever saw or heard of; the country froze over early in November and never thawed until spring. Our cattle literally starved to death, snow covered the grass and the water froze so they could not drink. I left in the spring, a busted and disgusted cowman. I have never been back to that particular country and have tried all these years to forget it, but the memories of that dreadful experience will forever remain with me.

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In 1876 I drove a herd for Ellison & Dewees. That year about 40,000 head of cattle were put on the trail, known as the Western Trail. This was real experience. We started from San Antonio over an unknown route and where no road or trail was to be followed. We were the pioneers who made the first tracks that marked the Western Trail. We reached Ogallala, Neb., after about three months' straight drive, passing through some hard country and often forced to go long distances without water. Food was an object, but we, of course, managed to get by. In all my trail driving I was fortunately never molested by bandits or thieves. I had men with me that were dependable and, with their assistance, I made what I called a success. Our meals consisted of just whatever we could find that would do to eat. In 1878 I took a herd from Bob Stafford's ranch near Columbus to Dakota, this time for Ellison & Sherrell, and my experience was about as is usually encountered on such drives. Then, in 1879, I took an interest in a herd and drove over the same ground. Was successful beyond my fondest expectations. The profits were not much, but it was in the days when a little money looked like a whole lot.

After that I bought and sold cattle in a small way in and around East Texas, often shipping to West Texas and selling cattle to stock the western range. In 1880 I went into the ranch business in Tom Green County and ranched there for about two years, being associated with W. D. Kincaid. In 1882 we moved to Haymond, in Brewster County, where we ranched until 1898. While there the firm name was Combs & Eancaid Brothers, being composed of D. S. Combs, W. D. Kincaid and J. M. Kincaid. We sold out to E. 0. Louchausen and in 1900 I bought our present ranch, which is located at Marathon, Brewster County, Texas, where my son, Guy S. Combs, has managed the same for the Combs family, all being partners in the ranch.

of my experiences and in meeting and remembering the cowmen of Texas. My association with them has always been a real pleasure, and when I have the good fortune of attending the Annual Eoundup, the pleasure it gives me to meet the familiar faces and shake hands with the boys is worth a great deal more than it costs any of us to keep the Association alive.

Experiences Of The Trail And Otherwise

There are ' ' a great many ways of killing a dog without choking him with butter/' as the old saying goes. In handling cattle there are also many different ways which may lead to the same result ; and, again, one way, or cause, may lead to many and varied results.

No doubt many of my old-time friends and cattle punchers have here related their experiences handling cattle on the trail in a graphic and interesting way; but as there are so many ^'spooks and ghosts" to play Hail Columbia with cattle, I shall take the liberty of adding a few of the experiences that I was privileged, or ^^ forced," to go through with, for the benefit of the younger set of cowboys and our dear friends, the readers.

A river changes its course in the course of time ; likewise, the channels of trade are changed with the passing of the days, which the following trip will illustrate.

I think it was about February 10, 1876, that J. W. Schelcher, Dick McRae, Manuel Cuero and I, with Louis Enderle as our foreman, went into Frio County, Texas, and gathered about 1,000 head of cattle and brought them up to the True-heart ranch on the San Antonio River. Here we finished the herd by adding another 800 head. This herd was the Joe Shiner property, and right here will state how these cattle were bought. Cattle were always bought by the head, and the price per head varied according to the age and class of the animal. There were no cattle sold *'over the scale," and platform scales for this purpose were not even dreamed of as a medium in the sale of cattle. Now, in gathering these cattle on different ranches we came across cattle that had strayed from other ranches, and their owner not being present, we would send him word that we had one steer, a cow, or a number of his cattle, as the case may have been, and paid him the prevailing price. This was within the law and in use quite generally. Cattle that had no brand or mark - ^well, that was not our fault. But it is remarkable the way these cattle persisted in following the herd. Naturally, our sympathy was with them. The ranches vfhere we gathered the cattle had some very wild stock - outlaws - and to get them called for strategy and cunning. These outlaw cattle would generally graze to themselves and come to water at night, especially if they scented danger or having seen a human being. There was a price on their head of $2.00 for a big steer, $1.50 for a cow, and from there on down to 50 cents per head delivered in the herd. To accomplish this we would watch around the watering places on moonlight nights and rope them. This netted us more money than we were able to make *^by the month." After we had roped an animal we would lead or drag him into the herd, or otherwise we would tie the animal down, and after we had several of them tied we would bring a bunch of cattle and, with the bunch, bring them into the main herd. This was great sport, and it was very dangerous as well.

We started the 1,800 head and got as far as Goat Creek, north of Kerrville, without any serious trouble. We herded them at night in three reliefs, and generally kept five horses under saddle all night in case of emergency. One night I was herding, and about midnight a bunch of wild hogs ran into the herd and stampeded the cattle. We were camped near a field close to a big flat, or prairie. The cattle headed for a lane, with me in the lead unable to hold them. The boys at camp heard the noise and came to my assistance, and were able then to control them. We lost only one steer, which was crippled in the back. At the head of the Perdernales River we killed a calf for fresh meat for the men in camp. An old bull smelled the blood and started bellowing and pawing the ground. He made a great to-do about it, and it acted as a **war whoop does to the braves.'* In the stampede that followed some 300 head got separated from the main herd and ran about a mile. We overtook them towards morning and brought the whole herd together without losing any. From there on to Fort Mc- Kavett we did not have any more trouble. Here I quit the herd, as I was offered a better proposition.

A second herd was started by Joe Shiner in 1878, with Louis Enderle as foreman and the same crew as on the previous trip ; besides he had three or four darkies with the herd. I joined them at San Antonio, bound for Kansas City. We had a stampede on a creek near Kerrville, and it took us half of the next day to round up the 100 head that had scattered. In Coleman County Joe Shiner sold the herd to Bill Fraser and we delivered the cattle at Wichita, Kansas.

Another trip in 1898, I recall, when Manuel Lopez, Little Pete Tafolla and I, and a little boy leading the pack horse, went to Wetmore, Texas, and, with the assistance of the Classen Bros., rounded up 300 head of steers. We were to meet a bunch of 600 steers en route overland from Hondo, throw the two bunches together and take them to the feed pens at Seguin, Texas, for Short & Saunders. However, after I had my 300 head gathered I received word to take them to Austin and deliver to John Sheehan, as he had bought them. The first night we made New Braunfels, Texas, but could get no pens. An old German sold us a load of corn-fodder and some corn for our horses, so we herded all night in the open. The second night we penned them in the railroad pens at San

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Marcos and took them out on the prairie next morning. Our cattle stampeded, running across a cornfield, but, being in November, did not do any damage. The herd reached Kyle, Texas, about noon and we stopped to cook a meal. A man rode up and asked if we needed any help. We were more than glad to hire him, and asked him about a pen for the night at Buda, Texas. He said there was only one pen, and it was engaged for the night. This made us feel bad, and we were thinking of sending a man ahead to arrange for some place for us to stop. Our visitor spoke up and said that he had engaged the pen he spoke of, and that he had been sent out by John Sheehan to meet us. That afternoon a passing train stampeded our herd, but we checked them in a lane. We penned at Buda that night and next day headed for Austin. When we got to the Colorado Eiver we found it on a rise. We were not allowed to cross cattle on the bridge, so we had to swim for it. Two of my men stayed with me and the third, a ^* cold-footer,'' crossed on the bridge. The cattle swam across all right and were delivered as ordered, without being any short.

One winter George Saunders and Ripps were feeding 1,800 head of cattle in their pens at San Antonio, and these cattle had to be guarded at night. One night a Mexican named Victorian and myself were herding when the cattle broke the fence for a distance of 100 yards. The cattle ran in a southerly direction, sweeping Victorian's horse with them. The cattle ran some five miles, with me in the lead and unable to check them. They finally broke into a pasture where I was able to turn them, and stayed with them until daylight, when relief came. The other relief man, who did not stampede with the cattle, did not show up until next day. Twelve men came out to help me bring back the cattle and it was some job. There were seven head missing next morning.

right of way for the Southern Pacific Eailway from San Antonio west to the Eio Grande Eiver. Two men joined the outfit with me at San Antonio, and the crew consisted of seventeen men. We surveyed as far as Uvalde, when we got orders to arm ourselves and keep our eyes ^'peeled'' for Indians. This was too much for the two men who had joined with me, and so they quit. We continued the survey, and were about 128 miles west of San Antonio, when the government sent twenty soldiers to us as an escort. At the Nenecatchie Mountains we had our first experience with the redskins. They came in the night and tried to steal our mules and horses by stampeding them. We had our guards, or outposts, stationed some distance from camp and they exchanged shots, but none of our men were hurt. At San Felipe, on the Eio Grande, Eangers took the place of the soldiers and acted as our protectors. While we were camped at the Mc- Kenzie Crossing on the Eio Grande, the Indians made another attempt to get our horses, but were routed by the Eangers. From there on we did not see any more Indians until we came to Eagle's Nest, on the Eio Grande. We were camped some 350 feet above the level of the river bed, and were cutting out a trail wide enough for a burro to pass with a cask, or small barrel on either side, to transport water from the river. We had stopped for the noon hour when we noticed nine Indians, seven bucks and two squaws. They had evidently descended to the river bottom some miles above and were wending their way to a point directly in front of us, where they could get to the water. They were coming in single file, some ten feet apart, and were in full war paint, the Indian in the rear being the guard. The eight went to water to satisfy their thirst, while one stood guard. Then the guard went to drink while one of the squaws stood guard, and she spied us, as we could tell from her gestures. When she gave the alarm they took to their horses and disappeared up the river. As we were not looking for

Our next camp was at Paint Cave. One night we sent our mules and horses out to grass with two guards in charge. Indians crept up and tried to scare the animals. One of the guards, finding that something was not right, gave the alarm, and the fireworks started. We fired some thirty or forty shots, and one of the guards claimed he got an Indian. This Painted Cave is worth a trip to see. It is a big opening under a protruding boulder, large enough for ten men to ride into on horseback at one time. Its inner walls are decorated with Indian paintings of wild animals, lions, tigers, buffaloes, etc., and all the sign language on the walls - some of which we would not understand if they were played on a phonograph. Besides this it contains the autographs of some of the pioneers carved in the rock, whose carvers have long since started on the *'long trail.'' I was told by a friend of mine the other day, who had been there lately, that he ran across my name, carved there at that time - forty years ago. I was born December 5, 1858, in the old Kipps home-

The only thing that is left to remind us of the olden days is the barbecue. In preparing barbecued meats Igained some proficiency, and have been, and am, called on a number of times a year to superintend these honestto-goodness barbecues. What is there nicer than a nice

If a bunch of stockmen get together, you can rest assured there is going to be a barbecue somewhere. A number of times at their different conventions and gatherings I have had from 1,500 to 2,000 pounds of meat roasting over the hot coals and, I believe, to their satisfaction.

Sketch Of Col. J. F. Ellison

My father, Col. J. F. Ellispn, was born in Winston County, Mississippi, November 6, 1828, and moved to Caldwell County, Texas, in 1850, settling on the San Marcos Eiver a few miles west of Prairie Lea, where he lived until the Civil War came on, and at the beginning of the war, in 1861, he answered his country's call, leaving behind him an humble, noble Christian woman with five little children, the writer being one of them. For four long years he was engaged in the great struggle, returning home in 1865, like most of the other true Confederate soldiers, a bankrupt, with nothing left but the faithful wife and five children. With turning plow, an old-fashioned sweep and a yoke of oxen, he went to work to try and make a living for himself and those dependent upon him.

The Teail Drivers Of Texas Col. J. F. Ellisox

to Northern markets was in 1867. In 1869 father bought and gathered about 750 head of mixed cattle, all kinds, from calves to grown cows, and started them up the trail. He bought these cattle on credit, to be paid for on his return. I accompanied him on this trip and we went to Abilene, Kansas, crossing the Colorado at Webberville and going by way of Fort Worth. We followed the old Fort Arbuckle trail through the eastern part of Indian Territory, now the splendid state of Oklahoma, and of which I am today a citizen. All the trouble we had with the Indians was their begging for something to eat. We found that if you fed them at meal time you could count on them being right there the next time your chuck was set out. After disposing of our cattle and outfit we came back through Mississippi, where father was raised, and from there to Galveston by boat f rotn New Orleans. This was my first experience on a boat and it made an impression on me that I will never forget. I didn't want any breakfast next morning.

This trip proved to be a profitable one. After paying for the cattle as soon as he returned home, father had $9,000 cash, which was a lot of money in those days. He drove again in 1870, and after returning home that year Colonel John 0. Dewees, then of Atascosa County, who was an old soldier comrade with father, wrote him that he would sell him all the cattle on time he wanted, so the next year he bought about 2,000 grown beef steers from Colonel Dewees and drove them in two herds. He contracted these steers, or a part of them, to a man named

Powers to be delivered at his ranch on Smoky Eiver, between Ellsworth and Abilene, Kansas, at two and a half cents per pound. They weighed about a thousand pounds each. This was a hard year, and but for this deal he would have lost money. Soon after this father and Colonel Dewees became partners in driving cattle over the trail, which partnership continued until 1877, and was quite satisfactory all around.

In 1867 Ellison & Dewees and Millett and Maberry drove together, and they drove from South and Southwest Texas fully 100,000 cattle to the Northern markets, delivering some of them as far north as the Black Hills in North Dakota.

Father died November 13, 1904, at his home in San Marcos. He followed the cattle business until 1880 with great success, but in that year he met with reverses which he never fully overcame. He was known to all of the old trail men and the hands of that time, and was held in highest esteem by all with whom he came in contact.

Sixty-Eight Years In Texas

I was born in Scott County, Mississippi, in 1848, being the eleventh child of Burnell Butler, who was born in Kentucky in 1805, and Sarah Ann Kicks, born in North Carolina in 1811.

In 1849 my oldest brother, Woodward, then a youth of twenty years, left the home in Mississippi to seek out a new location for the family. He crossed the Mississippi Eiver into Louisiana, where he remained long enough to make a crop and, selling out, journeyed on until he reached Karnes County, then a part of Goliad County, in 18 50, where he stayed on a tract of land that is now the Pleasant Butler homestead, near the San Antonio River.

County, Mississippi and started to join my brother in Texas. I was at that time four years old, but remember distinctly the start for Texas, father and mother, twelve children, and seven negro slaves, traveling in covered wagons, each drawn by two yoke of oxen, mother driving a hack with a team of big horses and father riding a fine saddle horse. I recall clearly a stop made near Jackson, Miss., to bid good-bye to my aunt, Mrs. Porter, and how my aunt drove down the road with us in a great carriage with a negro driver on a high seat in front - a barouche of the real old South.

We crossed the Mississippi River at Natchez, where the high red banks, down which they drove to the ferry boats that carried us across the great river, made an impression on my childish mind that has never been etfaced.

When the family reached the spot on the wild prairie lands where the town of Nordheim now stands, we camped under a great liveoak tree, the only tree in miles to break the prairie lands about us. Father and mother drove ahead in the hack to find Woodward in his camp on the San Antonio Eiver and to send him back to meet us as we came on with the wagons. He met us the next evening, December 24, 1852, on the banks of the Eclato.

The new country, with its wide prairies, its wonderful grasses and abundance of game, became the home of the Butler family. I recall "that my brother could go out in the ^evening when the sun was a quarter of an hour high and bring in a deer by nightfall. Turkeys also were plentiful.

In the spring of 1853 father cleared fourteen acres of brush land, pushing the brush back to make a fence, and planted corn. He harvested 700 bushels of corn, or fifty bushels per acre. Also that spring he leased a part of the Stafford & Selmer tract of land and bought cattle. He gave a small heifer to me, from which, up to the year 1862, I raised eighteen head. But in 1863 came a great drouth and my cattle diminished to one small steer.

In November, 1863, Woodward, who had led the family into the new home and blazed the trail for their future prosperity, drove to Port Lavaca to bring the winter's supply of groceries. While there he contracted yellow fever and died.

The years wore on and the great war between the North and the South shook even this remote corner of the country. I remember seeing great wagons, drawn by twelve steers, hauling cotton to Mexico, where it brought fifty cents a pound. Flour was not available at

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$26.00 per barrel, and corn in various ways became the staple diet. In 1 862 my brother, W. G. Butler, who had joined the army, was sent home to gather a bunch of cattle for the Arkansas post. I was then a youth of fourteen and went along to the Hickok pens, near Oakville, where the cattlemen had assembled 500 head, which were headed at once for Arkansas. I helped to drive them as far as Pecan Springs, near the present town of San Marcos, where I bade my brother good-bye and returned home.

In 1863 came the great drouth. The Nueces and San Antonio Rivers became mere trickling threads of water with here and there a small pool. The grass was soon gone and no cattle survived except those that had previously drifted across the Nueces Eiver on to a range that was not so severely affected by the drouth. In 1864 came rains and plentiful grass, and a search for drifted cattle was organized. All the young, able-bodied men were in the army, so a party of forty-five young boys and old men, headed by Uncle Billy Eicks, of Oakville, went to San Diego to the ranch of Benito Lopez, from which point they worked for a month rounding up cattle and cutting out those of their own brands. Every week a herd was taken across the river and headed for home, and in this way 500 head were put back on the ranges of Karnes County, where thousands had grazed before the drouth. My steer was luckily among the five hundred.

In 1868 W. G. Butler, home from the war, drove a herd to Abilene, Kansas, to market, and I went along as far as Gonzales. This fired in me an ambition to ride the whole trail, and in 1870 I made my first trip through to Abilene in the outfit of my brother. The trail then followed lay along the line from Austin to Belton, Valley Mills, Cleburne to Fort Worth, which at that time boasted of a livery stable, a court house and a store operated by Daggett & Hatcher, supply merchants, on the public square, through which we swung our great herd of cattle.

At Fort Worth it was necessary to take on supplies for a month, there being no big stores between Fort Worth and Abilene, Kansas, so at Daggett & Hatcher's we purchased flour, coffee, bacon, beans and dried fruit, threequarter pound of bacon and the same of flour being allotted to each man for each day.

From Fort Worth the trail ran on to Gainesville, crossed the Eed River and from there our outfit went up Mud Creek to the house of Bob Love, a Choctaw Indian, from whom we had to obtain passports through the Indian Territory. I remember that Love demanded 10 cents a head for the 500 head in the herd, and that after considerable business talk we compromised. Love accepting a $20.00 gold piece, and in return gave the necessary papers. From Love's we traveled the Chisholm Trail, crossed the South Fork of the Arkansas, through the Osage country into Kansas.

Along the trail the Indians showed great interest in our party, particularly the chuck wagon. Hospitality had to be limited, and little grass grew under our feet through this part of the country.

Buffalo were very plentiful, so numerous in fact that it was necessary to ride ahead of the cattle to prevent them from cutting into the herd. I killed four buffalo on this trip, using only my six-shooter. I had little use for the sights on a gun and shot just as true when on horseback and on^the dead run as when on foot.

In 1871 I started for Abilene in charge of an outfit of my own and was joined at Gainesville by several other herds, one belonging to Columbus Carroll, of Gonzales, in charge of Jim Cox; one of Murphy of Victoria, in charge of Captain Lynn; and one of Clark & Woodward, in charge of Judge Clark. This time we were to travel a new trail, through a more open country, but where there had been no previous travel.

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Blanket waited to pilot us through the new country. The herds traveled ahead in turn, a day at the time, the first herd breaking the trail for those following. For some time the trail ran along Line Creek, which lay between the Osage and Comanche nations. Eed Blanket warned us that if we got above the creek the Comanches would surely kill us. After this there was little discussion of which side of the creek made the best trail. Reaching Kansas in May, our outfit made camp on the Smoky River, twenty miles from Abilene, where the cattle grazed until September, when they were ready for market.

I made four trips over the trail to market my steers, and saw many miles of splendid country, but nowhere could I see the prosperity and the future that lay in my own part of Texas. So in 1874, when Capt. Tom Dennis bought the 7,000-acre Jim King ranch, now known as the Wilson ranch, I bought from him the north half of the ranch and paid 10% interest on the debt until it was paid. The next year I bought one-half interest in the Burris cattle and worked them on the range.

During the years 1874, 1875 and 1876 W. G. Butler and I operated on the range together. During this time we sold 600 head to John Belcher, and delivered them at Fort Worth.

In the fall of 1876 I sold my interest in the Wilson ranch to Coleman and Stokely, also all my cattle I had on the range at that time, range delivery.

In the year 1877 Coleman and Stokely delivered to mc 2,200 head of steers, yearlings and two 's, for payment of the cattle I sold them on the range. These cattle I rounded up and started up the trail, but on my arrival at Fort Worth I found a buyer and sold out to him.

In 1878 I finished receiving cattle from Coleman & Stokely and bought more from Sullivan & Skidmore to make out a herd of 3,500 head, and again started up the trail to Dodge City, Kansas, going through several storms and enduiing lots of hardships, and then, last, but not least, could not find a market for the cattle at Dodge Gity, so I was compelled to make the drive to Ogallala, Nebraska, where I sold out.

Arriving home in September, 1878, I began laying my plans for another drive up the trail. In February the following year (1879) I began receiving 3,500 from Jim Upton and others, getting everything in readiness for the drive. I started back to the prairies of Nebraska in March, and it took me three months to make the drive. I kept my cattle under herd, between the North and South Platte Elvers, until some time in August, when I sold out.

I was married to Miss Sarah Elizabeth Ammons on the 14th day of February, 1871. She was the eldest daughter of H. E. Ammons, who immigrated from Northern Mississippi to Karnes County during the dark days of 1850, settling on the beautiful San Antonio Eiver, near the town of Helena. To this happy union one son and four daughters were born, all of whom are living except my son, Burnell Butler, who died in 1895. My daughters all reside in Kenedy and are : Mrs. J. W. Eussell, Mrs. Van S. Ingram, Mrs. George H. Tips and Mrs. G. G. Euhmann, I also have twelve 2:randchildren.

My First Five-Dollar Bill

I went up the trail in 1868 with a herd for Mitchell & Dixon of Hays County. We were holding our herd alongside of an old rail fence at the Eed Eiver Station crossing, waiting for a herd to cross. I was in front (by the way, my place was always in front) on the left, and a good place compared to the boys further back, where they

The Trail Drivers Of Texas 485

}iad to ride back and forth, as there Avas always a muley or a one-eyed steer leaving the herd, and further back, especially the rear, you had the lazy and sore-footed cattle to keep moving. The best place around a herd while on the move - that is, if you want to keep well posted in cuss words - is the tail. At times the boys will not only cuss the cattle, but cuss each other and everything else in sight or hearing.

Now about my first $5.00 bill. I saw a small piece of paper in a fence corner, and as the cattle seemed quiet, I got down and picked it up, simply because I was hungry for something to read, if not more than one or two words. We did not have papers forwarded to us while on the trail. Well, I read that it was good for $5.00. I had never seen one before, so after crossing our herd, and when we struck camp for dinner, showed it to the boss. He said that it was sure enough good money, so I rolled it up stuck it away down in the pocket of my leather leggins. Money was of no value on the trail, as there was no place to spend it, but I valued that $5.00 more than any $5.00 I have ever had since. One day while at dinner the negro cook offered to bet me a two-year-old heifer he had in the herd against my five dollars that he could beat me shooting, only one shot each. I was good with a pistol, but I knew the cook was hard to beat. But I did not get nervous, as the two-year-old was about six to one if I won. One of the boys got a little piece of a board, took a coal out of the campfire, made a black spot about the size of a twenty-five-cent piece, stepped off fifteen steps (about 45 feet) and yelled, *^A11 ready, shoot.*' I was to shoot first. I jerked my old cap and ball Navy out and just about one second before I pulled the trigger I saw the heads of six Indians just over a little rise in the ground coming toward the camp. This excited me so that I did not hit the spot, only about onehalf of my bullet touched the board just to the right of the target. I yelled to the negro, ^ ' Shoot quick ! Look at the Indians !'' By that time we could see them plainly on top of the rise. He fired, but never touched the board. So six big Osage Indians saved me my valuable find - the five-dollar bill.

We bedded our cattle for the last time near Abilene, Kansas. The boss let myself and another boy go to the city one day. As it had been a long time since we had seen a house or a woman, they were good to look at. I wore a black plush hat which had a row of small stars around the rim, with buck-skin strings to tie and hold on my head. We went into town, tied our ponies, and the first place we visited was a saloon and dance hall. We ordered toddies like we had seen older men do, and drank them down, for we were dry, very dry, as it had been a long ways between drinks. I quit my partner, as he had a girl to talk to, so I went out and in a very short time I went into another store and saloon. I got another toddy, my hat began to stiffen up, but I pushed it up in front, moved my pistol to where it would be handy, then sat down on a box in the saloon and picked up a newspaper and thought I would read a few lines, but my two toddies were at war, so I could not very well understand what I read. I got up and left for more sights - you have seen them in Abilene, Dodge City and any other place those days. I walked around for perhaps an hour. The two toddies were making me feel different to what I had felt for months, and I thought it was about time for another, so I headed for a place across the street, where I could hear a fiddle. It was a saloon, gambling and dance hall. Here I saw an old long-haired fellow dealing monte. I went to the bar and called for a toddy, and as I was drinking it a girl came up and put her little hand under my chin, and looked me square in the face and said, **0h, you pretty Texas boy, give me a drink.'' I asked her ^ what she wanted and she said anything I took, so I called for two toddies. My, I was getting rich fast - a pretty girl and plenty of whiskey. My old hat was now away back on my head. My boss had given me four dollars spending money and I had my five-dollar bill, so I told the girl that she could make herself easy; that I was going to break the monte game, buy out the saloon, and keep her to run it for me when I went back to Texas for my other herd of cattle. Well, I went to the old longhaired dealer, and as he was making a new layout I put my five on the first card (a king) and about the third pull I won. I now had ten dollars and I thought I had better go and get another toddy before I played again. As I was getting rich so fast, I put the two bills on the tray and won. Had now twenty dollars, so I moved my hat back as far as it would go and went to get a drink - another toddy, but my girl was gone. I wanted to show her that I was not joking about buying out the saloon after I broke the bank. After this drink things did not look so good. I went back and it seemed to me that I did not care whether I broke him or not. I soon lost all I had won and my old original five. When I quit him my hat was becoming more settled, getting down in front, and I went out, found my partner and left for camp. The next morning, in place of owning a saloon and going back to Texas after my other herds, I felt - oh! what's the use? You old fellows know how I felt.

The winter of 1868 was spent having a good cowboy time. Wherever my horse, saddle and hat were I was there, spending my trail money. When spring came on I helped to get together one herd, branded a lot of mavericks and sleepers. But there was a little freckled face girl that I had danced a lot with in the winter months, so I made up my mind that I would stay in Texas that year, 1869. I fiddled, danced and worked cattle over a territory as big as the state of Maine. A ranch fifty years ago was not measured by acres or miles - they were boundless. Schools and churches back in the wild days were not handy and most of the ranchmen and cowboys did not care. No mails, no papers, neighbors miles apart, what could one expect from such a wild life? We would civilize up a bit when we went to a dance; that is, we would take off our spurs and tie a clean red handkerchief around our neck.

I drove beeves from the W. B. G. Grimes pens on the Leona to Matagorda Bay in the winter of 1869, then hired to John Eedus on the Hondo, where I finished the winter. In the early spring of 1870 I helped him get together 2,000 of the wildest longhorns that was ever started up the trail. They were travelers when strung out, but were inclined to stampede in front, the middle or rear. It did not take us long to mill them if in an open country, but in timber that was different. I took sick this side of Waco and left the herd horseback for the Eedus ranch on the Hondo. I punched cattle, fiddled and danced some years after, getting wilder all the time, until I met a curly-headed girl from Atascosa County, fell in love and married. It took her a long time to tame me. But she did, and for the last fifteen or twenty years I do not have to be tied. Just drop the reins on the ground, I'll stay there.

Slaked Their Thirst In A Dry Town

I was born in Hays County, four miles below San Marcos, October 17, 1857, and have never lived out of this county. I was raised on a farm, and on December 17, 1876, 1 was married to Miss Fannie Johnson. We raised six children to be grown, three girls and three boys, and we think they are all pretty good cattle, but do not know if they are much improvement over tlie old stock.

I first went up the trail in 1868, when I was just eleven years old, with my brother, George T. McGehee. We drove from Belton to Abilene, Kansas. The trail then went by the village of Dallas, crossed the Eed River at Colbert's Ferry, near where Denison is now located. At Abilene I met several of the old Texas drivers, among them being Colonel Meyers of Lockhart, Captain E. and Lonnie Millett of Seguin, Doc Day, and others. After holding the cattle at Abilene for about thirty days we shipped them over the M. P. Railroad to Springfield, Illinois, and put them in pastures belonging to W. K. and Joe McCoy, who were commission merchants, and sold them to farmers for feeders. I returned home by way of New Orleans that fall, taking about two weeks to make the trip.

After this for about ten years I went to school a little and stayed on the farm until 1879, when I went into the cattle business altogether, buying, selling and ranching. Started a ranch in 1883 in Pecos County, which I later consolidated with the Toyah Land & Cattle Co., of which M. Locker of Galveston was president. Associated with me in this company was J. M. Nance, H. Hillman, W. T. Jackman and W. C. Johnson. Sold out in 1886 and I, with Sam Head and Bill Jackman, delivered to Ike T. Pryor 3,200 cattle at Brady City to be driven to Wyoming.

In 1885, in connection with Bill Good, H. G. Williams, Bunton & Jackman, I drove 9,000 cattle from the Stafford ranch in Colorado County to Trail City, Colorado.

In 1886 I again drove to Trail City, Colorado, and sold out at Pueblo. From that time up to 1906 I was engaged in feeding and handling with M. A. Withers of Lockhart and H. C. Storey of San Marcos.

From 1906 I was tax collector of Hays County for twelve years. Since that time I have been handling a few cattle, and for a while engaged in shipping horses north.

I remember a little incident that happened on one trip. I fell in with D. S. Combs and about daylight one morning we loaded at Burlington, Iowa, and started up the street to get breakfast, and a toddy was suggested. After going up the street some distance, not knowing that Iowa was a dry state at that time, we stopped on the corner of a street and looked about as strangers would do, when a man standing on the opposite side, without asking a word, but, I think, from Comb's drouthy look, sized us up and said : * ^ Go back two doors and go in a back room and you will find what you are looking for.'' We followed instructions and located.

Lived In San Antonio At Time Of Woll'S Invasion

I was born in Jefferson County, Texas, March 5, 1835. My father, Claiborn West, was one of the signers of the Declaration of Texas Independence. I entered the stock business in 1854 in Atascosa County, and afterward went up the trail twice, each time with my own cattle; endured the usual hardships, but was not molested by Indians except when passing through the Territory, where the Osage tribe demanded toll, and I gave them a few steers. I wintered one of my herds in Nebraska and fattened them on corn which I bought at fifteen cents a bushel. I sold those steers for $5.00 per hundred pounds, which was considered a good price.

I lived on the San Miguel when the Indians were very bad. One night we had our saddle horses tied in the yard to keep the Indians from stealing them and when I went out at daylight to stake them out they were gone, but moccasin tracks showed plainly who had taken them. Notwithstanding the fact that I had two dogs in the yard which would have torn a man to pieces, those Indians got those horses without arousing the dogs.

The Trail Drivers Of Texas 491

one redskin and got his bows, arrows and shield, which I gave to Frank Hall, a brother of Bill Hall. Frank took them to Maine and gave them to his relatives.

Seven years ago I had one of my legs amputated just above the knee and since that time I have had to occupy an invalid ^s chair. My wife and I are living with our daughter, Mrs. Lula West Kay, near Jourdanton, in Atascosa County.

Got Their Names In The Pot For Supper And Breakfast

I was born in Lockhart, Caldwell County, Texas, December 12, 1857, was raised here and served as mayor of the town for sixteen years. My first experience in handling cattle began when I was nineteen years old. My father was not a stockman and therefore I did not grow up from babyhood handling cattle. After my school days were over I, with others, drove a mule team, hauling freight from Lockhart to Austin and down to the coast. In 1887 I started on the cattle trail, first going to the Erskin pasture in Guadalupe County, to get the cattle for Dewees & Ellison, and gathered them out of the brush so thick, as Green (Pap) Mills said, you could hardly stick a knife in it. Our boss was N. P. (Uncle Nat.) Ellison. The hands with us, as well as I remember, were W. M. Ellison, Green Mills, W. F. Fielder, E. F. Ililliard, John Patterson, Albert McQueen and Asa Jackson.

We Imd no serious misliap until Ave reached Onion Creek, where we had a storm and stampede. We counted next morning and were out over 300 cattle in the mountains and the mud, but we soon gathered them all in and moved on, getting out of the brush at Burnett, where we rested a half day. When we reached Eed Eiver at Eed River Station we had a stampede one night which was caused by a panther coming into camp to get some fresh beef we had on a line.

In 1871 1 went with William Green for Bishop & Head. We gathered our herd that spring at Joe Cotulla's ranch in La Salle County, and delivered them to Millett & Erwin on their ranch in the Panhandle, after which R. Gr. Head sent J. R. Saunders, H. F. Mohle, Billie Gray, Jim Foster and myself to Dodge City, Kansas, to cut all herds that came that way. We had two pack mules and seventeen horses, and when we reached Pease River one of the pack mules laid down and wallowed with his pack, turning it under his belly, so when he got up he stampeded and scattered clothes and blankets everywhere. We finally caught him, gathered up our plunder and went on and camped on a little creek three miles south of the Washita River. That night we had an awful rain and had to move to higher ground. We devoured all of our grub here, expecting to overtake one of Ellison & Dewees' herd before this, but they had crossed the Washita the day before. We started to cross while the stream was on a big rise, and as soon as our loose horses and pack mules struck the swimming water they turned down stream. Being nearer to them, I jumped my horse into it and he did not try to swim a lick, so I floated him out to a sandbar on the other side and lost my saddlebags and all of my clothes except those I had on. When we reached the Washita it was also on a rampage and we decided to wait until the next morning to see if the stream would run down, but the next day it was higher than ever, so we roped logs that were floating down the stream with which to construct a raft. While doing so Billie Gray roped a large tree top and it pulled him into the river. As he could not swim, I threw him the end of my lariat and, thinking he had failed to catch it, I plunged into the water to go to him, still holding my rope. Before I came up I felt him pulling on it, and when I again saw him he was overhanding the rope about ten or fifteen feet from me, so I caught a willow limb. By that time he reached me, caught me around the neck and ducked both of us. I held onto the limb, and he to my neck, and we got out all right, and I lost my lariat. Our craft got water-soaked and we had to make several trips with it to get our bedding across. I swam that river seventeen times that day without a bite to eat, and had had nothing the day before.

The third day we rode all day without food and camped at night in the mud. The fourth day we rode as fast as we could and decided that if we did not get something to eat within a very short time we would kill a horse and eat him, but about one o'clock we struck fresh herd signs and then we shoved our horses and pack mules to the limit. I was about 200 yards behind the other boys when they reached the camp of one of D. R. Fant's herds, and when I got there the boys were still on their horses. They informed me that the boss said he had no grub to spare, as he did not have enough to last him until he reached Dodge City. I remarked that I would just as soon die there as further up the creek, and that I was going to eat or get blood, and I meant every word of it, for I did not intend to perish from starvation when I could smell grub. The other boys were in the same fix, so I felt sure they would stand by me. I got off my horse, walked to the chuck box, where I found some cold cornbread and fat bacon, and ate some of it, went out to one side and vomited it up. We tried that performance several times before we could get the grub to stay with us. The cook put. our names in the pot for supper and break- fast, and the boss apologized for the manner in which he had refused to give ns anything to eat, saying he thought perhaps we were a bunch of horse thieves, as we had so many good looking horses, and was afraid to encourage us to remain near for fear we would steal his horses that night. We took our dinners with us the next day and caught the Ellison herd at Wolf Creek. Joe Ague had charge of it. We stayed with him two days, then went on to Dodge City, where I remained and cut cattle three and a half months. Then we threw all of the cattle we had cut, about 600 head, in with one of Dewees & Ellison's herds, and went from there to Ogallala, Nebraska, where the most of the herd was sold to Bosler & Lawrence on the North Platte, near the mouth of Blue Creek. There I was employed to do line riding until October. We gathered a shipment of beef cattle, crossed the river at Sidney Bridge and went to Ogallala, and from there with them to Chicago, when I came home to Texas.

In 1879 I went up with L. T. Pierce for Bishop & Head. In 1880 I went with Giles Fenner for the same firm as far as Cheyenne, Wyoming. There I received a wire from Mr. Head instructing me to go by train to Ogallala to take charge of a range herd of 3,700 cattle. In about two months he sold them back and I took 125 head of horses to Buffalo Bill Cody's ranch near Platte City, then took the train back to Ogallala and from there back to my place of birth an^ residence.

Settled On The Frontier Of Texas

Ed English, son of Captain Levi English, was born in DeWitt County, Texas, near Yorktown, April 7, 1852. His mother was Matilda Burleson, a cousin to General Edward Burleson, and also a cousin to Joe Hornsby, who lived on the Colorado and figured in the frontier history of the state. She was a member of the well-known Engli sh family and was likewise a cousin to the father of our present Postmaster General, Albert Sidney Burleson.

From DeWitt County the English family moved to Bexar County, remaining a short while, then went to Atascosa County and settled just above the present town of Pleasanton, being the first white settlers, along with Uncle Sam Lytle's family, to locate on the Medina Eiver near Von Ormy. From Atascosa they moved to Frio County in 1860 and settled on the Leona Eiver. While they were living there a band of 300 Indians made a raid in that section and killed several white men, among those murdered being Len Eastwood and Jim Saunders. The families got together, gathered up their horses, cattle and household goods and started back to Atascosa. On the road close to a place known as the Brand Eock about fifty Indians threatened to attack them, but when the white people showed fight the savages made haste to depart. The people remained in Atascosa about a year and then moved back to their homes in Frio County.

At a later time the Indians made another raid in that section and Captain English, with ten men, overtook them near where Dilley now stands. There a desperate engagement took place in which three of the white men were killed and six wounded. Those killed were Dan Williams, John English and Dean Oden. The only man living today who was in this fight is Aulsie Franks, now residing at Pleasanton. John English was the oldest brother to the subject of this sketch. He also had anotlK^r brother accidentally killed near Derby, Texas.

In 1865 Captain English moved his family to Carrizo SpT'ings. There was only one house in Dimmit County at that time, and he settled three miles below this house and was the founder of Carrizo Springs in 1869.

boys were attacked by seven Indians, who had come npon them unawares. Ed shot one of their horses and the Indians closed in upon him, shot him in the arm and knocked his gun out of his hands. An Indian made a lunge at him with a lance, which pierced his pistol scabbard. He managed to pull his pistol and killed the foremost Indian with it, then the other Indians ran to the fallen brave and Ed and his Little brother made a dash for the ranch, with three Indians following, and in the chase one of the Indians shot Ed in the back with an arrow. The boys outdistanced their pursuers and reached home, where Captain English pulled the arrow out, and found that it had a long steel spike on the end of it. Ed was laid up with his wounds for nearly two months.

The next raid the Indians made was in 1870. A band of about 200 swooped down on the ranch of Charles Vivian, killed a Mexican and captured a Mexican boy. Before they reached the Dave Adams ranch the Indians met a party of five cowboys. Will Bell, Joe Tumlinson, Si Hay, John Smith and a Mexican. As they were greatly outnumbered, the boys had to retreat. Adams was at a pen near his house when the Indians came up and, having no gun with him, he tried to gain the brush, but was cut oif and killed by the savages. The alarm was spread and when some of the Indians were within a half mile of Carrizo Springs several men went out and engaged them in battle, but were driven back. Other men had come in from the upper region and got around the Indians to the Adams ranch and engaged the main body in a desperate fight. While the Indians were killing Adams a wagonload of people who were going to Carrizo Springs drove upon the scene. They were Jack McCurdy, Jake Burleson, Pat McCurdy, Pleas English and Mrs. Levi English. They turned the wagon and ran from the Indians with only two following them, the others being engaged in the fight with the cowboys.

The Trail Drivers Of Texas 497

Mr. Eiiglisli drove his first cattle up the trail in 1872 to Wichita, Kansas. In 1873 he drove another herd to Dodge City, Kansas. During those days the stockmen formed an association and all worked together on the cow hunts. They sold all of the unbranded yearlings, then known as mavericks, and used the money to buy provisions for the cow hunts.

When Mr. English was quite a small boy he had a great desire to make money, so he took a contract to herd and shear some sheep, for which he received five dollars. He put that money aside to use it to go into the cattle business. One day a cow hunt was stopped at his home, and they had some mavericks which they were going to auction. So Ed decided that was his chance to get into the business. Among the number to be auctioned were two brown heifer yearlings, and Ed went to the man in charge and asked if he would be permitted to bid. The old man told him he could do so and asked how much money he had. The lad proudly replied, **five dollars,'' and told him how he had obtained it. About thirty men were there, but none of them would bid against the ambitious boy, so he got the two yearlings for four dollars.

Mr. English is one of the most prominent pioneer characters in the southwestern part of the state. He grew up on the frontier and was raised to the cattle business, which he has followed throughout his life, making his home in Dimmit County ever since those early days. He has business interests in San Antonio also, and has spent a great deal of his time during the past few years in the Alamo City. He has a fine ranch of 15,000 acres, beautifully situated on the divide between the Nueces and Eio Grande Rivers, and stocked with highgrade Hereford, Durham and Red Polled cattle.

During his career he has had more power of authority to handle cattle than any other man in his part of the state, that power extending from Brownsville to the Conchos. The hist settlements lie made were with Jim Lowe,

Billie Slaughter, Mont and Cal Woodward, Bill Ward and Lease Harris. In his cow business he never learned how to block a brand or run one over. He never handled a wet horse because he didn't need him in his business. He still buys and trades in cattle, and when he wants to buy a bunch he generally goes to see George W. Saunders at the Union Stock Yards in San Antonio, for he is a personal friend and deals on the square.

Mr. English has been married twice. His first wife was Mrs. Margaret English, and to them were born five children. In 1886 he married Mrs. Elizabeth Brock. They have one daughter, Celestyne, born July 4, 1900.

Some Thrilling Experiences Of An Old Trailer

In the spring of 1869 my two brothers, Dan and George Taylor, with Monte Harrell, rounded up a thousand longhorn beeves, four to twelve years old, and started them to Kansas. I had never been out of our home neighborhood before, so I went along to get some experience on the trail. The herd was rounded up in Gonzales County, about where the town of Waelder is now located.

We swam the Trinity at Dallas, where our herd stampeded and ran through the streets of the town, creating quite a commotion. The damage they did cost us about two hundred dollars.

L. D. Taylor The Trail Drivers Op Texas 499

with its banks, and we had to swim the herd across. It is a wonderful sight to see a thousand steers swimming all at one time. All you could see w^as the tips of their horns and the ends of their noses as they went through the water.

Near Waco I learned some law, by taking two rails off a fence for firewood with which to cook supper. Was glad to get off by paying two dollars for those rails. We proceeded on to the Eed Eiver, which we crossed and traveled several days in the friendly Indian Nation. The first night there we rounded up the herd, but next morning they were gone, for they had been stampeded by Indians shooting arrows into them, and it required several days to get them all together again. The Indians resorted to that kind of a trick to get pay for helping to get the cattle back again. When we left this section of the Indian Territory we turned our backs to civilization, for the remainder of the trip was to be made through a wild, unsettled, hostile country. After a few days' travel we struck the Chisholm Trail, the only thoroughfare from Texas through the Indian Territory to Kansas, and about this time two other herds fell in with us, and, not knowing the country we were going through, the three outfits agreed to stick together, stay and die with each other if necessary. Ours was the third herd that had ever traveled that trail. We had plenty of stampedes, and one day we had a run just after crossing a swollen stream. I was with the chuck wagon, and was left alone, so I just kept right on traveling. Late that evening, after I had turned out and struck camp for the night, my brother George came up and told me the herds and other wagons were ten miles behind. He gave me his pistol and went back to the herd, and I stayed there alone that night. The next day the hei'd overtook me, and I felt somewhat relieved.