Early, Texas - Trail Drivers of Texas : Interesting Sketches of Early Cowboys and The (part 6 of 20)

This being a good year for driving, everything moved along nicely until we reached Northern Kansas, where we waited for another herd, and when it came, we found there was a surplus of hands, so eight of us came back to Texas, reaching Austin about the first of July. After this I made several short drives, going with one herd from Frio County to Colorado City, Texas.

Found A Lot Of Snuff On The Trail

I went up the trail in 1876, 1877 and 1878. The first two trips were short, one to Fort Worth and one to Fort Dodge, but the last trip was long, starting on the 4th of March and ending on the 4th of July, when we were paid off in Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory. I traveled along the trail side by side with John R. Blocker, and was just below him when he had four horses killed by lightning in Sydney, Nebraska.

I remember one incident in particular that happened on this trip. A negro named Thad found a box containing a lot of snuff the other side of Fort Worth. It had probably fallen off a freight wagon. He was afraid to sell it as we passed through the Cross Timbers, although

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I venture to say that at least nine women ont of ten in that region used snuff in those days. But he finally disposed of it at Red River Station. At this point we had a big stampede one night, and a fellow tried to steal our remuda. Nothing further happened until we reached Dodge City, where we crossed the Arkansas River. It was my night off, and I went into Dodge with the boss, Sol West, to ** whoop 'em up, Liza,'' but a big cloud came up after I had paid $1.25 for a haircut and shave, and I had to go back to the herd and stand guard all night during a severe storm. The next place we passed was Buffalo Station, where we delivered four hundred steers to Sparks and Taylor, then headed north to Ogallala, Nebraska, crossed the South Platte River, followed the Union Pacific Railroad to Big Springs, the point where Joel Collins had robbed the U. P. train and secured $80,000 in $20.00 gold pieces, and was later killed. We left the North Platte River and went up Pole Creek, but nothing of note happened until we reached Sydney, Nebraska, Where a big storm came up and lightning killed the four horses for John R. Blocker. No one was hurt except the cook, who was slightly stunned by the shock. We delivered the cattle within twenty miles of Cheyenne, and all of the boys came back to Texas, except myself. I decided to remain with the same cattle, and we went to Powder River to locate a ranch, but the weather got so cold we located on the North Platte River. I spent the winter there, got homesick and came back to Texas.

Eight Trips Up The Trail

I made my first trip up the trail in 1879, starting from Lockhart, Caldwell County, with M. A. Withers. We crossed the Colorado River at Webberville, and at Hutto we encountered a terrible hailstorm and rain, during which our cattle drifted several miles, many of them getting across a little creek, which soon got on a rampage, after Green Mills, *^Pard'' Eoland and I had crossed and were gathering the scattered herd. Green was riding his well-known pony, ^^Grunter." We were wet, cold, and hungry, but we had to stay with those cattle until the next morning before we could get back to the main herd. This was my first real experience with trail driving, and if I could have gone home right then I would not have been easily persuaded to go on that trip.

From Hutto we continued our course to Belton and Fort Worth. At this time Fort Worth was the terminus of the Texas & Pacific Eailroad. Crossing the Red River at Red River Station, we traveled the old Chisholm Trail until we crossed the Canadian River. Here we quit the Chisholm Trail, going west and intersecting the Western Trail at Cimarron River, and thence to Dodge City, Kansas, where we delivered a part of our herd, taking the remainder to Buffalo, Kansas, on the K. P. Railroad. From here I returned home.

Our outfit was composed of M. A. Withers, Joe Lewis, Green Mills, Rus Withers, George Brock, Cal Polk, Barney Roland, Walter Ellison and myself.

In 1880 I made the second trip. This time we went the Western Trail, out by old Fort Griffin. We crossed the Red River at Doan's Store, going from there to Wolf Creek, Indian Territory, where we divided our herd, putting a part of the cattle with a herd belonging to W. T. Jackman. We delivered this herd at Ogallala, Nebraska.

In 1881 I made my third trip up the trail with J. R. Shanklin of Prairie Lea. We received a part of our herd at George Hindes' ranch in Atascosa County, completing it at Ellison's ranch in Caldwell County. This time we followed the Western Trail through to Ogallala, Nebraska.

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ton County from Bob Stafford, and came out by Gonzales and Lockhart, from whence we traveled the Western Trail to Throckmorton County. Here I was taken with chills and had to return home.

In 1883 my fifth trip was made with R. W. Robinson, whose herd was received at Pearsall. We went out by Bandera and Kerrville to Runnels County, where we delivered a part of the herd to Doc Grounds, who lived about eighteen miles west of Abilene, Texas. From here ] delivered the balance of the herd to J. R. Blocker in the Indian Territory, and returned to San Antonio with the outfit.

My next trip was in 1884, when I went with Giles Fenner. This year we shipped our herd from Austin County to Wichita Falls, driving from there to Ogallala, Nebraska. From Ogallala we went to Wyoming and delivered the herd to Dater Brothers on the Cheyenne River. From there I went with Captain Ellison to Running Water, Wyoming, to deliver another herd to Durgin Brothers and then came back home.

In 1886 I went with Giles Fenner, Joe Blocker, Driscoll and Davis. This herd we received at Texiketa ranch, twenty miles south of Stafford Station. We struck the west prong of the Nueces River at Kickapoo Springs, and continued up the river to its head, passed over the divide to the head of the Llano River, traveled down the Llano about forty miles to Green Lake, and from there went to Fort McKavett, where we crossed the San Saba River. This herd we delivered at Hugo, Colorado.

My last trip was made in 1887. I went with W. T. Jackman from Jeff Davis County. We shipped our herd from Toyah to Big Springs, and from there we went the extreme Western Trail across the plains to Trails City, Colorado. Our crowd was composed of W. T. Jackman, Mac Randle, John Street, Lum Hunt, Dick Craft, the cook, our Mexican hostler, Chapa, and two negroes, George Crunk and Burrel Moore.

Of course the life of a trail driver was made up of many hardships, but now as I recall the happy associations with those good old friends I can certainly say that my hardships were far outnumbered by the good old times spent on the trail.

A Long Time Between Drinks

In the spring of 1880 I. made my first trip up the trail, starting from old Mount Woodward ranch on the Leona River, in Frio County. We had 3,200 mixed cattle in the herd, which belonged to Captain John Lytle. Billy Henson was our corporal, or boss. We drove through to Ogallala, Nebraska, on the South Platte River, and delivered them to Jim Ellison. It took us five months and ten days to make the trip, and I was the only man that started with the herd and stayed with it until delivery was made. The boss was taken sick and had to quit. Near Dodge City, Kansas, one of our men, Otis Ivey, was killed by lightning, and within a very few days

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With the exception of being badly frightened several times, we did not have much trouble with the Indians on this trip. I was just a mere boy at the time, but I believe this was the hardest trip I ever made. I missed going on herd only one single night during the entire journey. My guard was from two o 'clock until daylight. From the time we started I was not inside of a house after we left Frio Town until we reached Ogallala. The last house I was in before I left was Tom Bibb's saloon in Frio Town, and the next was Tuck's saloon in Ogallala. This was a mighty long time between drinks.

I made several trips after this, the longest one being to the Cheyenne River, South Dakota. Gus Black was our boss on this trip. Gus is still living, rides horseback as well as he ever did, and looks after his cattle as actively as a young man.

I am now an old broken-down cow-puncher, and am working for Colonel Ike Pryor, one of the finest men in the world, on one of his ranches in Zavalla County. My postoffice address is La Pryor.

Scouting And Routing In The Good Old Days

I was born in 1865 and got my first experience on the cow range in 1876. Captain Hall was moving cattle to West Texas from the Colorado Eiver coast country, and as they passed through Live Oak County I joined them and worked with them through the fall of 1876. In 1877 I went to work for Dillard Fant, and John Dumant was my boss. When Fant sold out to George West I worked in the Mustang Camp on Spring Creek catching wild horses and breaking them. In 1879 I went up the trail with horses for Mr. Neall, and we delivered at Dodge City, Kansas. On our way up we had several stampedes, but had no trouble with the Indians. In 1880 I again went up the trail, this time to Ogallala, Nebraska, and we had skirmishes with the redskins. One night I was on herd north of Doan's Store on Eed Eiver, near the mouth of Cold Water Creek, and had for a night mare a small Spanish mule. That mule smelled the Indians, his tail went right up against his belly, and it was impossible to hold him. In fact, I did not try to hold him, just let him take the lead through the darkness, and we traveled all night. Next morning I found myself about twenty miles from camp. When I got back to the bunch we were short thirty-three head, so we started out to look for the lost horses. The boss sent me up the creek to the divide where there was no timber to hide in in case a fellow should get after a bunch of Indians. After riding about twenty-five miles up the creek, and reaching a point not far from the Indian Territory line, I discovered several Indians at a distance of about 200 yards coming toward me, but we did not meet, for their guns looked as long as the Chisholm Trail, and I did not care for them to get in closer range. At that time I weighed only ninety-five pounds, but I picked up my pony on my spurs and when I let him down I went down his hind leg with my quirt. I pointed him back down the creek, with the yelling red devils in full chase, and I working in the lead. My boss had often told me that in a stampede I should stay in the lead, and I was bent on carrying out his instructions. Finally, after I had raced them for several miles, I came to a crossing in the creek, which was about forty feet wide and in deep sand. Here my horse gave up and refused to go further. I shook him up, but he had done his best, and that was all he could do. It was then up to me and the Indians to do the rest. So I went into a small ravine, took the cartridges out of my belt and put them in my hat, and waited for a fight, but the red rascals went out of my sight, leaving me as mad as a hornet and wanting to scrap, for I had not had time to fight them during the chase.

I went back to South Texas in the fall of 1881, and worked on the mustang range again in 1882, when I got into trouble and had to leave that region, and was '*on the dodge'' for twelve years during which time I * ' fought ' ' cattle for nine years almost night and day. My little case of trouble caused a *^ moving" disposition to take a hold on me, and for two years it seemed that everywhere I went the officers were after me. During those two years I went under my own name, from place to place, and state to state, but they chased me out, so I returned to the plains, changed my name to Bill Wilson, and went up the trail several times, until 1892. During one of these drives I was in an Indian fight on the Canadian Eiver. We had a stampede one night and lost a few head of cattle, and next day I was sent out to hunt for them. While riding down the river a bunch of Indians jumped me. We had a short race for a thicket of cottonwood trees. As usual, I worked in the lead, and when we got to the thicket I went into it like a rabbit. There were seven Indians in the party, and they immediately surrounded the thicket. I had dismounted, and had my Winchester ready, so when I saw one of the redskins standing up on his horse, I raised old ** Betsy" and cracked down, and there was a dead Indian. For about thirty minutes we had a pretty lively time. The battle ended with five dead Indians and one scalp scratch on my head.

In 1885 I took a herd for Chadman Brothers to Butte, Montana. I delivered the herd, shot up the town, and rode out to camp. The next morning I went back and asked the amount of damage I owed for shooting a saloon glass to pieces. The bartender said $1,500.00. We asked him to take a drink. We took one more, and then took off down the trail.

The next year, 1886, I had charge of a herd of stock cattle and started from Las Vegas, New Mexico, to Nebraska. On this trip I killed a smart Mexican in a shooting scrape. I went out of there under fire, but I held my ground, as all of the Mexicans in that region were on my drag. But a boy raised on the frontiers of Texas always had a way to beat that kind of a game. As George Saunders said about Jack West: **If it did not go right, we always had a machine to make it go right. ' ' The kind of a machine the cow-puncher had was sometimes called a ^* cutter,'' and sometimes it was called a ** hog-leg," but it was better known as a six-shooter gun, and we frequently had a use for it, for it was a **friend in need" in those days. The Western boys always stood pat - ^no draw pat or show-down.

I ran a maverick brand on the head of Double Mountain Fork, on the 00 Eange. 0. J. Warren was the owner. It got so big I lost my job and had to change my brand. That was my headquarters in winter after I got off the trail.

A great many so-called cowboys nowadays think it is fun to work cattle. It is really play, for they have nothing to do. In the early days we had no pens or railroads or wire fences. When we gathered cattle it was to hold them. Sometimes they would run all night. The boss would yell out to us, ^^Sing to 'em, boys," and we would sing a song as only a cowboy can sing, but something would go wrong and they would be off on a rampage once more. The worse the weather the closer we would have to stay, for then was the time they gave the most trouble. Once I was on guard six days and nights without going to bed.

This was written in September, 1919, just after I had passed through a great Gulf storm, in which we lost everything, house washed away, and everything lost. There are nine in my family, but I did not lose any of them. We were in the storm for twenty hours and dur- ing that fearful period I thought of the old times on the trail, when the rain, hail and thunderstorms used to play such havoc with us. Those were strenuous times, and we endured many hardships that will never be recorded for the perusal of oncoming generations, but, just the same, we had our day, and the world is better for it.

Catching Antelope And Buffalo On The Trail

My first trip up the trail was in 1876 with a herd of 1,600 steers belonging to Woodward and Oge of Frio County, the man in charge being Dick Crews. We left the ranch on the Frio Eiver, four miles above Frio town, on the 14th of March and delivered the herd at Fort Sill in the Indian Territory to the agent at the fort seven weeks after we left the ranch. We had considerable trouble just after starting until we got out of the brush, after which we got along nicely. The weather was fine, no severe storms or cycylones to contend with. These cattle were purchased by the government for the Tonkaway tribe of Indians. After delivering we started back home with our entire outfit, eleven men and the cook. We reached home safely and immediately went to work on the ranch.

In the spring of 1877 we commenced rounding up another herd, and were ready to make the start by the 15th of March. Gus Black, who now lives at Eagle Pass, was in charge of this herd, and we had, as on the previous drive, eleven men in the outfit. We had the same trouble with the cattle as on our first trip, but as soon as we reached the open country they moved along well. This herd was headed for Dodge City, on the Arkansas Eiver, and we reached our destination about the 20th of the following July, with our cattle in better shape than when we started. Mr. Oge, who was in Dodge City awaiting our arrival, came out to meet us and remained with us until we delivered. Dodge City was then a wideopen town. Gambling and fandangoes were in full blast. While we were there two men were killed in a saloon row.

The cook and horse wrangler started back over the trail with our saddles and outfits with them, and the balance of us returned on the train.

The next year, 1878, we gathered our herd early and were ready to start by the first of March. This herd was taken through by Virgil Johnson, who died several years ago. We had about two thousand head of mixed cows and steers. It happened to be a wet season and we lost a great deal of sleep from the very start until we reached Eed Eiver, on account of the excessive rains. At Eed Eiver Station we found about a dozen herds scattered over the country waiting for the rise in Eed Eiver to run down so they could cross that stream. While we were here a severe thunderstorm came up and rain fell in torrents. While it was in progress I could see the lightning playing on the brim of my hat and the tips of my horse's ears. Suddenly a terrific bolt of lightning struck right in our midst and killed nine of our best cattle. It stunned my horse and he fell to the ground, but was up in an instant and ready to go. The cattle stampeded and scattered and it was all that we could do to keep ahead of them. After running them for a mile or more, every man found that he had a bunch of his own to look after, they were so badly scattered and frightened. I managed to hold 236 head the balance of the night, and when daylight came we worked the bunches back together and made a count and found that we had lost over three hundred head, which meant some tall rustling for the boys. Before night we had rounded up all of the strays except about forty head, which we lost entirely. We waited a couple of days longer for the river to fall, but it seemed to keep rising, so Mr. Johnson decided to ferry our chuck wagon over and swim the herd across. When we struck the stream it was bank full, with a sandbar (quicksand) showing in the middle of the river. In order to get the cattle to take the water we brought our work oxen down and started them across. They seemed to know just what we wanted, for when they reached the edge of the water they walked right out into the deep current and began swimming across, the balance of the herd following. Four of our steers stopped on the bar of quicksand and bogged down and we had to swim out and extricate them after we had all the others on the far side. Every one of them showed fight when we pulled him out of the quicksand, and took right after us, and we had to hustle to keep out of reach. On the other side of the river we found the bottoms full of ripe wild plums and enjoyed quite a treat.

When we took the trail again we could see the Wichita Mountains in the distance, about seventy-five miles away. We knew the trail passed along the foot of those mountains, but on account of water the trail made a big curve to the right, which made it a longer drive, so in order to save time, Mr. Johnson decided to try to go straight through on a bee-line to the foot of the Wichitas, and thus save several days. It proved to be a bad venture, for we traveled without water for two days, not a drop for the cattle to drink or with which to quench our thirst. We had to keep traveling, and by noon the third day our herd was strung out for fully two miles, with the big steers in the lead going Hke race horses, and the old dogies bringing up the rear. I happened to be on the point and about noon I saw the leaders throw np their heads and start to run. Mr. Johnson said, ^^They smell water/' and, sure enough, after crossing a ridge we found a little stream of clear sweet water. We camped right there that day and all of the next to allow our stock to rest. The country was open and was covered with the finest grass I ever saw. We reached the Wichita Mountains and got back on the old trail. While traveling along we permitted our herd to scatter and graze, and as we were proceeding slowly we discovered a brown bunch of something on a ridge about a mile away. It turned out to be a herd of buffalo, which were the first I had ever seen. We decided to go forth and kill some of the animals and, accordingly, several of us mounted fresh horses and put out to go around them and head them toward our herd so the other boys could get a chance to kill some of them. But when within two hundred yards of the buffalo they saw us coming and struck a bee-line for the north pole. We yelled and fired at them without result, they kept on traveling. I gave out of ammunition and was determined not to go back empty-handed, so I took down my lariat and selected a young bull about two years old, and soon had him lassoed, but found out that I was not fooling with a two-year-old cow brute. I think I let that bull run over my rope a dozen times and threw him each time, but he would be up in an instant, and I just could not hold him. I called Shelby to my assistance, and the two of us finally managed to get him down and cut his throat. Shelby went back to the herd while I remained and skinned the buffalo and had him ready to load into the wagon when it came along. This same young man (Shelby) began bragging about the fine young horse he owned and said he would bet any man $10.00 that he could catch an antelope on him, so one of the boys took the bet, and the next day the race came off. We espied a bunch of antelope on a ridge 400 or 500 yards away, and Shelby put out in their direction. As soon as they saw him coming they scampered away due north. The country was almost a level plain, but there were a few ridges, and for quite a while we could see the race, but finally Shelby passed out of sight. We kept grazing the herd along, all the time watching for Shelby, and after a long time he hove in sight away off to the north and coming in our direction on the right side of the herd with the antelope leading the race by some 300 yards. It is said that antelope as well as other wild animals have a certain range, and it seemed so in this case, for when Shelby struck out after this one it made a big circle and came right back to where we first saw it. We could see that Shelby was losing ground, and the antelope was about all in, for its tongue was hanging out of its mouth when it came by us, and it was panting furiously. It did not seem to pay any attention to our herd or the men around it, so Johnson told a Mexican to go out and lasso it. He succeeded in doing so in a very few minutes. Poor old Shelby came back with his horse completely fagged out, and lost the ten dollars. His horse did not fully recover from the chase for over two weeks.

While we were in the Osage Nation an Indian chief and four bucks came to our camp one day and wanted us to give them a steer or two for allowing us to graze our cattle through their reservation. Mr. Johnson refused to give them any, and the Indians went away in an ugly humor, threatening to come back and stampede our herd that night and get one anyhow. Mr. Johnson told them to just try that trick and pointed to our Winchesters. Of course we expected trouble, but the Indians failed to carry out their threat.

Everything went along smoothly after that. It rained on us frequently, but only showers. As we were going along through a little creek bottom after a shower one morning we discovered a lot of wild turkeys, and I decided to catch a gobbler, and gave chase after a big fellow. After running him for quite a while I managed to

"We crossed over the line into Kansas, and now and then we could see a little 14 x 16 box house where some farmer had located his pre-emption, and near it would be a few acres in a field, but no trees, fences or other improvements. These squatters were not very friendly toward the Texas cowboys.

We reached Nebraska in the early part of June, and one morning a regular blizzard came upon us, and for about two hours we had sleet striking us in the face. Our overcoats were rolled up in the wagon, so we just had to grin and bear it. We reached the American Eiver that day and found a few Cottonwood trees, but the limbs we gathered with which to make a fire and warm our chilled bodies would not burn, and we had to *^ tough it out. ' ' When we reached the Platte River we found protection for our herd in the draws or ravines there. We delivered the herd at Ogallala and my uncle, Mr. Oge, sold all of the cow ponies and outfit and all hands took the train for home.

This was my last experience on the trail. After reaching San Antonio I went to Bandera and joined my brother in the mercantile business in 1878.

Drove A Herd To Mississippi And Alabaivea

I was born in Yalobusha County, Mississippi, March 1, 1845, and came to Texas with my parents in 1850, locating in Gonzales County. Although quite small at that time, I remember when crossing the Mississippi River at Vicksburg, a fire started on the boat and there was great excitement on board. The passengers and crew succeeded in extinguishing the fire before it gained much headway. We moved to Goliad County iii 1859.

I was married June 27, 1866, to Miss Annie New in Bee County, Texas. To us were born twelve children, eleven of whom are yet living. I was engaged in the mercantile business in Bee County several years, later moving to Sayers, Bexar County, in 1884, where I was postmaster and merchant for twenty years. I moved to San Antonio in 1919. T. B. Saunders, a prominent business man of Fort Worth, is my son.

We crossed the Guadalupe River at Clinton and went to Sweet Home, in Lavaca County, where we rented a field in which to pen our cattle. In this field was a large haystack. The cattle became frightened at this haystack and stampeded. Next morning we were eight miles from camp and lost three hundred of the beeves. We remained there several days to round up our cattle, and then started on our trip, crossing the Colorado at Columbus, the Brazos at Richmond, the Trinity at Liberty, the Natchez at Beaumont, the Sabine near Orange, and then passed into Louisiana, after which we crossed the Culeshoe River and passed through Opelousas, where we met Crump and Fleming, who bought half interest in

When we were near the Mississippi Eiver the Confederate soldiers arrested all of our crowd, thinking we were trying to get the beeves to the Yankees. They took the owners of the herd to Alexandria and held the rest of us four or five days, but as they could not prove anything, we were all released and permitted to pursue our journey. When we reached the Mississippi a thousand of the beeves took the water and easily swam across, but we had to sell one hundred on this side of the river, as we could not get them across. We had an old negro with us who was very excitable, and was always uneasy for fear the Yankees would get him, and we had a great deal of difficulty in keeping him with us.

We found sugar mills at all of the large plantations and whenever we stopped at a mill our boys were told to **help themselves," which they usually did, with the result that they often ate too much and were sick from the effects of it.

After we crossed the Mississippi the Confederate soldiers arrested us again, and took our men to Fort Hudson, where they kept them several days, but, as in the former case, they found nothing against us and turned us loose. At Woodville, Mississippi, the cattle were divided, and Borroum and Choate sold theirs to parties there. Crum and Fleming went on to Mobile, Alabama, where they sold their cattle.

At Woodville we stayed at a plantation owned by Dr. Simms. The fence around this plantation was made of hedges. One night Dr. Simms persuaded Upshur Brookin and myself to go bird hunting. We had to carry a light and kill the birds with a stick. We succeeded in killing but one bird, and the next morning at breakfast Upshur found that bird on his plate. Dr. Simms had a large canebreak on his farm where he kept his mules and horses. The doctor had never seen a hair rope, so while

Upshur Brookin, J. B. New and myself came home together. We crossed the Mississippi with our horses on a ferry boat. The water came within two inches of the top of the boat and I almost knew we would sink before we got across. I reached home in January and enlisted in the army at Corpus Christi, February 23, 1863, when I was just seventeen years old.

It was solely for the love of adventure that he came, seeking what the new country might have in store for him. And, although his father was adverse to having him come to a strange new country, he gave him means for the trip and a letter of introduction to Major Hutchinson of San Marcos, who had been a law student under an uncle in Charleston, Virginia.

Mr. Gibson and a distant relative by name of Oscar Flagg made the trip together. They landed at Galveston, Texas, and from there made their way to San Marcos, but, wanting to be without restriction, the letter to Major Hutchinson was never presented; and as the means for the trip had become exhausted, these boys went about seeking whatever employment they might find. Their first work was with Mr. H. C. Story of San Marcos, now a prominent stockman.

The first position with a *Hrip up the traiP' was made with Coon Dunman of Eefugio, Mr. Gibson driving the remuda. This position he liked, as he was relieved of night herding, except in nights of storm, when all hands were called upon to hold the cattle. This herd was driven to Coleman City, and delivered to an English syndicate, after which he returned to Sweet Home, Lavaca County, and worked on the Willis McCutcheon ranch.

Later, while working as ranch foreman for D. E. Fant, on his Live Oak ranch, Mr. Gibson was one evening **held up'' by two bandits upon returning home from doctoring horses in a lower pasture. The outlaws demanded his gun, and when told that he had none, then demanded his new saddle, but after they had been made to see that they already had possessed themselves of all else he had except that, they decided to let him keep it, and started on their way.

Upon entering the ranch it was found to have been stripped of all its choicest possessions. Mr. Gibson then set out for the nearest camp to find help, but being unable to get any, borrowed from George S. Fokes his gun and fourteen cartridges (all he had) and returned to the ranch. Imagine his surprise upon entering the home pasture to find camping beside the gate the same men who had caused him so much trouble the day before. They again demanded the saddle, evidently censuring themselves for their generosity of the day before, but being now in possession of a gun, he refused, which, as the usual thing, brought the guns of both sides into play. Mr. Gibson, seeing a big tree nearby, gained that and, shooting from behind its protecting trunk, finally sue- ceeded in putting them to rout. As soon as possible he set out for the nearest ranch, owned by John Edwards, and there found that Dave Walton, at that time sheriff of Bee County, had the day before tried to arrest the same parties for like depredations. Edwards joined him and later a posse composed of Ed and Tom Lasater, the Coker boys and a number of others, surrounded the house of the bandits, but found that they had moved on. This raid and its subsequent excitement led to the acquaintance of Doss and Garrett Van Meter and their widowed mother, Mrs. E. V. Van Meter, of that place.

It was in the later years to their home and its associations that Mr. Gibson looks back as being one of the very brightest spots in the memory of his young manhood.

The following spring, however, being unable to resist the tinkle of the old bell-mare, Mr. Gibson made the second trip up the trail, this time with Nance and Mitchell, driving cattle. He pointed herd all the way with a boy by the name of John Williams guarding the opposite point. They had a great deal of rain and hail during this trip, and one day as they were passing through the Indian country near the Wichita Mountains, a funny incident took place.

A bunch of Indians rode up behind Mr. Gibson and grunted in their Indian fashion, **How Johnf and after lingering a while asked such questions as, ^^No cara swap horses r' ^^Dimme Cartuches'' and *^Unde CampoT' went over to Williams and hailed him by ^'How John!'' As soon as they rode away Williams came over and when Mr. Gibson expressed surprise and asked where he had met them, said, *'I never seen the d d fools before, but they called me John.'' Later this circumstance was related in camp to the old trail hands, who whooped and yelled and seemed to consider it a good joke, and when they had quieted enough so as to be understood.

The next year Mr. Gibson's work was with the Boyce Bros., and as soon as the grass was green they proceeded to Cuero, there to procure the outfit for the trail. This consisted of wagons, harness, saddles, etc., and were bought from John Stratton, who at that time had the largest outfitting store in this part of the country.

The trip was with horses, some five hundred head of which had been bought from Ed Corkill of Conception. These horses were delivered at Dodge City, Kansas, going by way of San Antonio, Kerrville, Soleman City, Vernon and Doan's Store, an Indian trading store on Red River. There the trails forked, one going to Mobeetie and the other by the Wichita Mountains. The delivery of horses took three months, while that of cattle took four.

It was on this trip one night that a severe thunderstorm came up. The horses had been turned loose on the tableland when, just before the storm started, a deer jumped up in front of the herd and caused them to stampede. They ran directly by camp, causing the remuda to join them and, as they had not been hobbled for the night, came near leaving the cowboys all afoot, the remuda man's horse being the only one staked. And as one of the boys ran to mount him he, catching the contagion of fright, pulled up his stake and went rushing 'oy camp. The negro cook, taking in the seriousness of the situation, grabbed the rope and went bumping along for about a hundred yards before he could stop him. He then mounted and assisted in trying to stop the herd that had by this time crossed the creek. The storm, however, growing in intensity, compelled an early return to camp with only a few saddle horses.

Everyone spent a very restless night confronted with the thought that these few horses constituted their all and that it was two hundred miles to the nearest pasture

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Daylight found them in their saddles eagerly searching for tracks and after two days hunting found all but three head. The following spring, however, Jim Mussett, a friend, found the three missing horses in the general roundup with the Indians, and after selling them sent the money to the owners. This was considered a very lucky stampede.

Mr. Gibson made eight trips with horses. Horses in those days were driven by the thousands and sold to early settlers in job lots in Western Kansas and Nebraska.

Jim Dobie, Frank Byler and Boyce Bros, were among some of the most important horse trail drivers. When applying to any of the above mentioned men for a trail job, it was useless to ask what horse one might ride, for the reply would invariably be *^ Throw your rope and whatever it falls on, fork him." On one of these trips a laughable thing took place. The cook had quit for the good reason that his pay had stopped and that necessitated the finding of another. A young man just arrived from the East was chosen for this position. After he had convinced the boys that, although he was no expert cook, he could boil water without burning it, the boss told him to cook for dinner red beans, bacon, coffee and dried apples. The cook, not knowing the habit of apples, filled the pot full and covered them with water. When they began to swell the pot began to overflow, and it was a funny sight witnessed by one of the boys in passing to see the tenderfoot frantically digging a hole in the sand and burying the surplus supply. At first the coffee was all grounds, the bread like leather and the beans rattled down one's throat, but, being a persevering kind of a fellow, by the next roundup he had become a really good cook.

rooster that had been presented by Ben Jones of Oakville, now deceased, to Mr. Gibson. It was a source of pleasure and amusement to the whole camp, and the Indians en route were astonished to see a chicken with a cow outfit, so far from civilization. His early morning crowing brought no response, as the nearest ranch was over two hundred miles away. He had the misfortune once to hang by one foot all night from the hound of the wagon, his roost. A storm coming up during the night had blown him off and when morning came he looked as if he had been to an Irish wake. He was tenderly cared for by the boys and the cook and before long was his normal bright self again, making the trip to Dodge City and back to Cuero with the cook.

Mr. Gibson's last trip was with horses in 1888, and he found it very difficult to get through as the man with the hoe had taken the country, and the old trail had all been fenced up, so the drive overland from Texas to Kansas was over and the cattle then, as now, must be routed by way of the iron horse.

It has been in this manner for the past twelve years, having holdings in two ranches, that Mr. Gibson, in partnership with Eichard King, Jr., grandson of Mrs. H. M. King of Santa Gertrudes ranch, has conducted his cattle business and still classes himself as **one of the cowboys.''

An Indian Battle Near The Leona River

In 1865 occurred one of those sad frontier tragedies where the settlers were unable to sustain themselves in an Indian battle, and wives and mothers were made to mourn for loved ones who never returned except as mangled or inanimate bodies. This noted fight occurred on the 4th day of July in the above named year near the mouth of the Leona River in Frio County. The settlers in the vicinity at that time were the Martins, Odens, Franks, Bennetts, Hays, Parks, Levi English and Ed Burleson. These were all in what was known as the Martin Settlement.

On the morning in question Ed Burleson went out a short distance from his ranch to drive up some horses. He was unarmed and riding a slow horse. Suddenly and unexpectedly to him he was attacked by two Indians, who ran him very close, one on foot and the other mounted. The one on foot outran the horseman and came near catching Burleson, but he ran through a thicket and, coming out on the side next his ranch, arrived there safely. Quite a lot of people had collected at his house, men, women and children, to celebrate the Fourth and wind up with a dance. Ere the sun went down on that day, however, the festivities were changed into mourning. Instead of the gay tramp and joyous laughter of the dancers, wailing and the slow tread of a funeral procession was heard. Excitement ran high when Burleson dashed in and gave the alarm. Most of the men mounted in haste to go in pursuit and others were notified. When all the men had congregated who could be gotten together on short notice, they numbered eleven and were as follows: Levi English, L. A. Franks, G. W. Daugherty, Ed Burleson, W. C. Bell, Frank Williams, Dean Oden, Bud English, Dan Williams, John Berry and Mr. Aikens. Levi English, being the oldest man in the party and experienced to some extent in fighting Indians, was chosen captain. "When the main trail was struck the Indians were fonnd to be in large force, and going down the Leona River. They crossed this stream near Bennett's ranch, four miles from Burleson's. They then went out into the open prairie in front of Martin's ranch, ten miles further on. The settlers first came in sight of them two miles off, but they went down into a valley and were lost to sight for some time. Suddenly, however, they came into view again not more than two hundred yards away. They were thirty-six Indians, mounted two and two on a horse. The Indians now discovered the white men for the first time and at once commenced a retreat. The white men were all brave frontiersmen and made a reckless and impetuous charge and began firing too soon. The Indians ran nearly a mile and, thinking likely they had well-nigh drawn the fire of the settlers, checked their flight at a lone tree at a signal from their chief, and each Indian who was mounted behind another jumped to the ground and came back at a charge, and for the first time commenced shooting. The mounted ones circled to right and left and sent a shower of arrows and bullets. Some of the Indians went entirely around the white men and a desperate battle at close quarters ensued. The redmen had the advantage of the whites in point of numbers and shots. The latter, having nearly exhausted their shots at long range, had no time to reload a cap and ball pistol or gun in such a fight as was now being inaugurated. Captain English in vain gave orders during the mad charge, trying to hold the boys back and keep them out of the deadly circle in which they finally went. Dan Williams was the first man killed and when he fell from his horse was at once surrounded by the Indians. English now rallied the men together and charged to the body of Williams, and after a hot fight drove them back, but in so doing fired their last loads. The Indians were quick to see this, and came back at them again, and a retreat was ordered. Frank Will- iams, brother to Dan, now dismounted by the side of his dying brother and asked if there was anything he could do for him, and expressed a willingness to stay with him. *^No,'' said the stricken man, handing Frank his pistol, **take this and do the best you can - I am killed - cannot live ten minutes. Save yourself.'' The men were even now wheeling their horses and leaving the ground, and Frank only mounted and left when the Indians were close upon him. The Comanches came after them yelling furiously, and a panic ensued.

Dean Oden was the next man to fall a victim. His horse was wounded and began to pitch and the Indians were soon upon him. He dismounted and was wounded in the leg, and attempted to remount again, but was wounded six times more in the breast and back, as the Indians were on all sides of him. Aus Franks was near him trying to force his way out, and the last he saw of Oden he was down on to his knees and his horse gone. The next and last man killed was Bud English, son of the late captain. His father stayed by his body until all hope was gone and all the men scattering away. The Indians pursued with a fierce vengeance, mixing in with the whites, and many personal combats took place, the settlers striking at the Indians with their unloaded guns and pistols. In this fight all the balance of the men were wounded except Franks, Berry and Frank Williams. Captain English was badly wounded in the side with an arrow ; G. W. Daughtery was hit in the leg with an arrow ; Ed Burleson also in the leg; Aikens in the breast, and W. C. Bell in the side. In this wounded and scattered condition the men went back to the ranch and told the news of their sad defeat. Other men were collected and returned to the battleground to bring away the dead, led by those who participated but escaped unhurt. The three bodies lay within a hundred yards of each other and were badly mutilated. The Indians carried away their dead; how many was not known, but supposed to be but few, on account of the reckless firing of the men at the beginning of the fight. Bud English was killed by a bullet in the breast, and there was also one arrow or lance wound in the breast. The head of Dan Williams was nearly severed from the body, necessitating a close wrapping in a blanket to keep the members together while being carried back. Oden and Williams were brothers-in-law, and were both buried in the same box. Eight out of eleven were killed or wounded.

No name was more familiarly known thirty-five years ago in West Texas than that of Andrew Jackson Potter, the ** Fighting Parson." His name was a household word from the Panhandle to the Gulf ; from the Colorado to the Eio Grande, and the stories of his wit, prowess and adventures were sent abroad in the nation by press and pulpit. While the question of frontier protection was being considered in the United States Congress in 1872, a Texas member said in his speech: ** Remove your regulars from the garrison on the Texas border; commission Jack Potter, a reclaimed desperado and now a Methodist preacher and Indian fighter, instruct him to choose and organize one hundred men and Indian depredations along the Texas border will cease."

A. J. Potter was born in Charlton County, Missouri, April 3, 1830, and was one of seven children - four boys and three girls - Andrew being the third son. His father, Joshua Potter, was one of those rugged Kentucky marksmen who stood behind the breastworks at New Orleans, January 8, 1815, and helped defeat the flower of the

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British army under Packenham. It was on account of his love and veneration for ^'Old Hickory" that he named his son Andrew Jackson. While quite young the boy's father moved to Grand River, near Clinton, where the lad spent his boyhood. Clinton was at that time a border county and educational facilities were very limited. Three months in school covered the entire period of Andy's scholastic experience, and during this time he learned to read after a fashion, but did not acquire the art of writing.

At the age of ten, Andrew was an orphan, without home, friends or heritage, and became a race rider, and his skill, courage and daring soon won the high regard of his employer to the extent that he taught him to write, play cards and shoot straight; three of the most important branches of a frontiersman's education during those early days. For six years Andrew followed the occupation of race rider, his daily associates being jockeys, gamblers, drunkards and blasphemers - six years of perilous paths that led over hills, mountains and deserts from St. Louis to Santa Fe. In 1846, when hostilities broke out between the United States and Mexico, Mr. Potter then being about 16 years of age, enlisted in Captain Slack's company of volunteers and, under command of General Sterling Price, took up the line of march for Santa Fe, New Mexico. A few days' march demonstrated the fact that Andrew was too sm^ll to carry a haversack and musket and endure the fatigue of a soldier. He was detailed as teamster, where he learned his first lesson in driving oxen.

The expedition left Leavenworth, Kansas, in September, 1846, and the route led up the Arkansas. Before reaching Bent's Fort the entire train of 40 wagons was captured by the Cheyenne Indians. Not apprehending danger, it seems the main body of troops had passed on far in advance, leaving the train without an escort. Under the cloak of friendship, two Indians came into the camp early in the morning and were given food and remained. When the train moved out two others came np ; other squads joined them and then still larger bands, then three hundred savages rushed upon the teamsters. No attempt at violence was made by the Indians. The chief gave the wagonmaster to understand that he only wanted provisions, not scalps, and if he had to fight to obtain the provisions he'd take scalps also. The wagonmaster agreed to give him a certain amount of provisions, and while this was being given out a cloud of dust was seen rising far in the rear and the teamsters shouted, ** Soldiers! The soldiers are coming!'' Seizing their plunder, the Indians mounted and fled. The cloud of dust was caused by an approaching wagon train.

At Bent's Fort, young Potter was seized with an attack of *^camp fever," and it was thought necessary to leave him at that post, but his wagonmaster, who had become greatly attached to the lad, made arrangements to take him along. It was yet three hundred miles to Santa Fe, winter was at hand and the Raton Mountains were before them. After enduring untold hardships, they reached Santa Fe in January, 1847. For five years young Potter remained with the army in that region, operating in New Mexico and Arizona, fighting, trailing and routing the vengeful Apaches and other dangerous tribes. It was during this period that he became an adept in all the arts of Indian warfare. He was an apt student in their school of cunning and strategy. Mr. Potter leaves on record his impressions made by the sufferings of Price's men in the hospital at Santa Fe. He says:

'*In the latter part of 1847 I was employed as a nurse in the hospital at Santa Fe. On entering that place I saw an affecting scene ; a large number of men sick of scurvy, measles and pneumonia, were lying on narrow bunks so closely crowded together that there was just room to pass between them. My time of nursing came on in the first part of the night, and it was an awful half night to me. Many of the sufferers in their fevered delirium would rise up and gather their blankets, saying they were going home. By the time I would get them quieted, others would be crying out: * Good-bye, I am going home!' at the same time making efforts to get up. Never shall I forget those dreary half nights I spent there with the dead and dying. Oh, the sweet thoughts of home, sweet home! They came as a dream charm over the fevered brain when visions of wife, babes and loved ones at home entered the mind.

**At length a train set out for Fort Leavenworth to carry home all the sick who were able to stand the trip across the plains. I was one of the attendants. As our ox teams slowly moved up the hill I took my last lingering look at the old adobe town of Santa Fe, with eyes dimmed by unshed tears, as I gazed for the last time on the graves of so many brave soldiers who lay side by side on the tomb-covered hill beyond, not to arise until Death's long reign is passed. Many of our sick died in the great wilderness and we rolled them up in their blankets and hid them in earth's cold clay at intervals in our long journey from Santa Fe to Fort Leavenworth. Their unmarked graves are in the unsettled wilds of Nature's solitude. Friends and dear ones at home know not the place of their rest. When we wrapped their cold bodies in their soldier shrouds and shaped the grave mound over them, the hardy soldier would perchance moisten the earthen monument with a pitying tear. To me it was a terribly gloomy thought to leave them alone in savage lands, to be trodden under foot by the wild, roving bands of Nature's untamed children in their merry dances over the dust of their vanquished foes."

After six years' service as a soldier, Mr. Potter came to Texas, reaching San Antonio in 1852, and from there he went to visit a brother then living on York's Creek in

Hays County. Shortly after his arrival at his brother's he was stricken with typhoid fever and came near dying. When he recovered he found himself penniless and a big doctor's bill to pay. His first employment was driving an ox team at $15 a month, hauling lumber from Bastrop County to San Marcos, and by saving up his wages he was soon able to pay off all indebtedness. About this time Eev. I. G. John, a Methodist preacher, came along and filled an appointment on York's Creek. Potter went out to hear him, more for the novelty of the meeting and a spirit of curiosity. The text, **Who is the wise man?" pierced his soul, and from that day he became a regular attendant at preaching, even denying himself the pleasures of a Sunday race in order to hear Eev. John preach.

John preached at a great religious revival held at Croft's Prairie, in 1856. Mr. Potter was converted, joined the church and the horse racer, gambler and saloonkeeper tough was completely transformed and became one of the most useful men "West Texas ever knew.

The new life inspired Mr. Potter with a desire to learn and he became a devoted Bible reader. He learned to write, and soon began to preach. In 1859 he sold out in Bastrop County and located on a place nine miles east of Lockhart, where he was licensed to preach and from there began his wonderful career as an itinerant preacher.

In 1861 he was seized with a desire to visit the old home in Missouri, but had no money to defray the expenses of the journey. Mr. Miller, of Lockhart, was getting ready to start a herd of cattle to Kansas. Mr. Potter hired to him as a herder and after 47 days' travel, reached a point 100 miles from the home of his boyhood, which he traversed in a few days. His sister only remained to greet him and those who had known him as the reckless race rider and gambler were astounded to learn that Andy Potter had come to life and was a preacher ! He preached to a great concourse the Sunday

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In February, 1862, Mr. Potter enlisted as a private in Captain Stoke Home's Company at Prairie Lea. This company was assigned to Wood's Eegiment, Thirtysecond Texas Cavalry. The command was first stationed at Camp Verde, Kerr County, and later near San Antonio, where Eev. Potter was appointed chaplain of De- Bray's regiment. From San Antonio the command went to Brownsville, where the fighting parson whipped the editor of the local paper for having published what Potter conceived to be a libel on his regiment, and was on the eve of throwing the printing plant into the river, but was prevented by General Bee.

Mr. Potter was in all of the battles of the Eed Eiver campaign in 1864, one of unspeakable hardships to the soldiers of the Confederacy - ^hunger, sickness, toils, battle strife, death. Bread, sugar and berries were the chief articles of food. The good chaplain shared all these hardships with the common soldiers, passing through all the daily drills and marches, preaching, praying and exhorting the men.

When in battle array and ready for the order to advance, Chaplain Potter could be seen with hat in one hand and Bible in the other, walking back and forth in front of his regiment exhorting the men to repentance. **Boys, some of you may fall in this battle," he would say; **in a few minutes you may be called to meet your Maker. Eepent now and give your heart to Christ. He is waiting to receive you. Oh, men, it's a solemn moment! You are facing death and eternity!" And when the order * 'forward" was given, Mr. Potter seized a musket, fell in rank and fought side by side with his men. At the close of battle Potter seemed endowed with the power of ubiquity. Everywhere, praying with the dying, administering to the wounded, writing last messages to friends at home, day and night, scarcely pausing to take food

In the fall of 1865 Mr. Potter was appointed as a supply to the Prairie Lea circuit and at the annual conference held at Seguin in the fall of 1867, he was sent to the mountain frontier and took station at Kerrville. This threw him in the region where, on each light moon, the Indian left his trail of blood along some mountain side or valley. But the Comanche yell had no terrors for Potter ; he had heard it before and had been schooled in all their wiles and methods. In 1868 Mr. Potter bought a place near Boerne and moved his family to it. In 1871 he was sent to the Uvalde circuit, which bordered on the Eio Grande, where Indians could cross any day, and their depredations, killing and stealing, were almost of daily occurrence. Uvalde, at that time, was known as one of the wickedest places on the border and never before had preaching. In addition to his ministerial work, Mr. Potter had been appointed colporteur, and over this vast territory he distributed among rich and poor alike a great number of Bibles.

During the first year of his work in the mountain region the Indians made a raid on Curry's Creek. Dr. Nowlin, an old frontiersman, knew the Indians were in the country and stationed two men in his corncrib to guard his horses, which were loose in the lot. The moon was at its full and along about midnight two Indians were seen to stealthily approach, and as they began to let down the lot fence, one of the men in the crib took good aim and fired, killing the Indian in his tracks, the other man was so scared he could not shoot and the other Indian got away.

While on his rounds in the Uvalde work, on the road between the Frio and Sabinal Canyon, Mr. Potter met a squad of four Indians. He was traveling in an ambulance drawn by two small Spanish mules and while passing through a lonely defile in the mountains he came up almost face to face with these four redskins. He saw there was going to be a fight and, seizing his Winchester, he leaped out of his ambulance and securely tied his mules to a sapling and then, under cover of a thicket, he reached a slight elevation, where he could better command a full view of the enemy. Getting in a good position, the parson took good aim and pulled the trigger, but the gun failed to fire and the *^ click" of the hammer revealed his whereabouts. Two Indians had citizen rifles and blazed away at him, but without effect. The parson fired at the same instant, wounding one of the Indians and knocking the gun out of his hands. The wounded Indian was taken up by his comrades and carried off.

Potter might have killed all four before they got out of reach, but he was afraid to risk his cartridges, as they had been on hand some time. Eeturning to his ambulance, he drove off some distance from the road and came to the foot of a mountain and drove into a dense thicket. He knew there were more than four Indians around, and that they were likely to lay in ambush somewhere ahead. When he had secured his team in the thicket he carefully cleaned his gun, selected the best cartridges, got his pistol in fighting trim, and began to look around. He discovered two Indians watching for him from the summit of the hill above him and when they saw that he had seen them, they blazed away, but missed their mark. Mr. Potter pumped several shots at them as they scampered over the hill out of sight. He then re-entered his vehicle and drove away without seeing that bunch of redskins again.

One instance out of many, will give the reader an idea of the person, the men and^ the times of which we write. While on this frontier work, late one evening he reached a military outpost. It might have been Fort Clark. The soldiers had just been paid off and the little village near the post was crowded with gamblers, sharp- ers, crooks and other disreputable characters. Many of these knew Mr. Potter and when he rode up they set up a shout, **Here comes the fighting parson !'' ^^Hold up, there, old pardner! Can't you give us a gospel song an' dance tonight?'' When told he would preach to them if they would provide a place, one sang out, **Sure, Parson, we'll make way for ye, if we have to rent the saloon ! " A saloon gallery was provided with rude seats, kegs, barrels and a few chairs from dwellings nearby, and as the word had gone abroad that a strange preacher was in town, people began to assemble early. One man who was the worse for drink, insisted on acting the part of usher and town crier. He mounted a barrel and for some time kept up the cry, **0 yes. 0 yes. 0 yes! There is going to be some hellfired racket here, right here on this gallery by fightin' Parson Potter, a reformed gambler, but now a regular gospel shark. The jig will begin now in fifteen minutes, and you old whiskey soaks and card sharpers, come over and learn how to mend your ways, or the devil will get you quicker 'n hell can scorch a feather."

A great crowd assembled - one of the hardest looking sets of human beings Potter had ever preached to, but they kept good order, and when service concluded they wanted to **set 'em up" to the parson, but when he declined that mark of their respect they passed an empty cigar box and all *^ chipped in." He preached the next day and was pressed by those rude Western men to come again and come often.

In 1878 or 1879 Mr. Potter began his labors at Fort Concho. San Angelo was a small frontier village and, like all post towns along the border, had a record not the best along the lines of morality. The saloons and gambling halls were popular resorts. They were open day and night, and every man went heavily armed. Mr. Potter visited the families, preached to the gamblers, soldiers and plainsmen.

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In 1894 he was sent to the Lockhart circuit. Here it was on this same circuit that he began his ministry. On October 21, 1895, he preached his last sermon prior to going to conference. It was the close of his year's work, and proved to be the ^losing scene of his life work. This was at Tilden, and while delivering his peroration with uplifted hands with the words, **I believe,'' he fell in the pulpit and when tender hands lifted the Hmp form the great soul had gone home to the Father who gave it. To the writer who knew him and loved him as a brother for many years, he had expressed a wish to die in harness, in the pulpit.

As has been stated, no man who ever lived in Southwest Texas was more widely known than A. J. Potter. That he acquired the title of the *' fighting parson" was in no wise derogatory to his character as a man, a Christian gentleman or a preacher. He was a man absolutely without fear. He was never the aggressor, and when a difficulty was forced upon him he always acted on the defensive and vanquished his assailant. His personal combats with Indians and desperadoes would fill a volume. It is a notable fact that when he had overcame an assailant in a fist fight or otherwise, if he chanced to be a white man, he always gave him fatherly counsel and offered him his hand.

It was said of him that he knew every road, trail and landscape throughout all West Texas. He had visited nearly every home in all this vast region, administered to the sick, officiated at weddings and funerals, and received a frontier welcome everywhere.

The Chisholm Trail

The meeting of **The Old Time Trail Drivers' Association/' of which the writer is a charter member, held at Houston, Texas, calls to mind many interesting bits of history of the early-day cow business and of the drives made over the romantic and historic Chisholm Trail. And I wonder what has become of all of those good boys who blazed the way from San Antonio to where it crossed the Eed River near Gainesville, thence through what is now Love, Carter, Garvin, Grady, Canadian, Kingfisher, Garfield and Grant Counties in Oklahoma.

This trail was started in 1868 by John Chisholm, for whom the trail was named. One of the principal watering places was at what was called the government spring, and which is now a beautiful park in the city of Enid. In 1872 the terminus was shifted to Ellsworth, Kansas, and in that year the Santa Fe built into the Great Bend country and Dodge City was laid out as a townsite, and in 1874 the head of the drive was located at that point. From 1874 to 1884 Dodge City was headquarters for all cowmen from Oklahoma and Texas. During that ten years it was the toughest spot on the American continent and much history has been written of it and of the men who tamed the population and who turned the wide-open town with its Indian fighters, buffalo hunters, cowboys, dance halls, honkytonks and gambling houses, into the modern city of today, where a beautiful high school building ornaments the summit of the notorious Boot Hill, where many a mother's boy who left the East so suddenly that he forgot to take his name with him was laid away by the followers of the Chisholm Trail.

It was in the year 1881 that the writer made his first drive over the trail for Jesse Evans, one of the cattle kings of that day. He was accompanied by some twenty good-hearted, dare-devil, fear-nothing riders, and lie would love to know where the remnant of that little band of good boys is and that those who have passed on were given credit for the good deeds performed in this life, and the broad mantle of charity spread over the faults that we all have, and of which (it seems to me) the writer has more than any. On this drive some of our boys quit and men were picked up to take their places, and in this way we were joined by Bill DriscoU, who had been riding the Bar L for Colonel Brooks. He was a morose, sullen man, who never spoke of his past, and as he was always practicing shooting and telling of his prowess with a '^45,'' no one made inquiry regarding it, and in a short time all quit trying to be pleasant or sociable with him, and he was left almost entirely to himself.

Another recruit was Burt P.helps, who came from no one knows where, but he joined the drive at ^*01d Boot ranch." He was a mild-mannered, blue-eyed boy of 22 years, highly educated and very refined and seemingly entirely out of place on the trail, a fact of which all were sure when he was seen one day to be earnestly reading a little pocket edition of the Bible, which he hurriedly put away and blushed like a school-girl when he saw us looking at him. Though quite modest and retiring in disposition, he was soon a rank favorite with all except Driscoll, who never missed a chance to make light of ** mamma's boy," as he called him. Burt was warned several times to look out for Driscoll, as he was a bad and ugly-tempered man and would probably try to draw him into a fight, and as he already had several notches on his gun, a fight with him was to be earnestly avoided. To this Burt replied that he did not fear him and, despite the notches, he was not afraid, and that if occasion required he could shoot him twice while he was pulling his gun, a statement which was soon to be borne out.

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standing rather close to it, when Burt threw a handful of wood on it, causing a small coal to fly up and strike him in the face. He at once flew into a rage and grasped his six-shooter, but before he could get it from the holster Burt had his gun in his face and smilingly took the gun with its notches from DriscoU and, taking the shells from it, handed it back and said : ^ * Mr. Driscoll, you act like you were drawing a siege gun into action and ought to practice up some that you may defend yourself in time of trouble. You had better go now and rest up for a hard day's ride tomorrow.'' He moved sullenly away and again Burt was warned to be careful, which only brought a smile to his boyish face.

For some days all went smoothly, until we bedded one night near the D H K ranch, and were asked to attend a dance at that place, and as opportunities of that kind were few and far between, all gladly accepted, and, leaving a few boys to watch the herd, the rest went to the dance, where all had a fine time. At about midnight a driver by the name of Ed Bannister, who was from Atchison, Kansas, called to Burt through a window of the ranch house to loan him his gun, as a man out there wanted to kill a wolf that was scaring the horses. Knowing Bannister to be his friend, nothing was thought of the request and the gun was handed out and soon returned with the word that the wolf had gotten away. Shortly after all went back to camp to sleep.

The following day Driscoll and Burt met at a water hole and Driscoll renewed the quarrel of a few days past, and drew his gun, but before he could fire Burt had snapped his gun twice from the hip. Driscoll fired and poor Burt fell dead. The man who asked Bannister to borrow the gun had removed the loads. It was Bill Driscoll. Some say Driscoll escaped and was later in the sheep business in New Mexico. Others say that at the foot of a dead tree on the banks of Eed Eiver could be found a few bones and a black-barreled .45 with several notches on the handle and four loaded shells. Who knows? The writer doBs know that on a gently sloping hill overlooking the valley of the Red Eiver is an almost forgotten grave that contains all that is left of the mortal remains of poor Burt Phelps, and in the inside pocket of his coat is a little Bible, on the fly-leaf of which was written, **From mother to her boy." Where he came from no one knew, but his companions on the drive believed him to be the son of a rich Eastern father with whom he had fallen out, resulting in his leaving home to cast his lot with the rough element to be found on the range.

The writer could go to this forgotten grave where poor Burt's remains are resting and where he was laid by a bunch of cowboys, who, with hats in hand, tried to say a prayer and, failing, their eyes dimmed with tears, one member on his knees, with eyes raised to heaven, said, **0h, God, look down on this Thy child.''

The writer lives now at Oklahoma City, not far from the old trail that could tell so many stories of human interest if it could but speak. Other men who live here and who rode the trail from 1874 to 1884 are Frank M. Gault. He was sent in 1880 by W. H. Davis to Laredo, Texas, to bring 5,000 longhorns over the trail to Dodge City, and on this drive he had as his assistant foreman Wills McCoy, now of San Antonio; James D. Cox, who drove through in 1874, and who, now at the age of 82, would rather have a good cow horse and saddle than the finest auto, has a fine ranch in Arizona and often spends his summers there; Charley Colcord, who is now a millionaire oil man, and whom the writer recently met at a reception attired in a full dress suit, which brought to mind the fact that it was he who brought the first toothbrush to Medicine Lodge, Kan., and how the punchers all wanted to borrow it till pay day, and after that day came, for a short time, each rider had a whitehandled brush sticking out of his top vest or shirt pocket,

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I could go on writing of others, such as George B. Stone, Oscar Halsell, Bill Tilghman, B. S. McGuire, F. E. Herring of Elk City, and others who were good cowboys, and are good men, who while on the range could take their own part under any and all circumstances, feared nothing, and who are now the God-fearing and peaceloving business men who have builded a modern city of 100,000 people in twenty-seven years on the site of the Chisholm Trail.

Preferred To Take Older Cattle Up The Trail

In the early seventies we owned quite a large horse stock and, there being no market for them in this country, I decided to drive a bunch east in hopes of finding sale for them. In 1873 I gathered one hundred mules and some good horses and started with them. I first went to Wharton, on the Colorado, but, not finding a market there, I went on to Richmond, on the Brazos, then to Lake Charles, La., continuing my journey until I wound up at the mouth of Red River in Lousiana. There I remained five months, finally disposing of all the mules and horses. I continued to make drives to that region every year until 1878, when I concluded to try driving cattle up the trail to Kansas. That spring Dug Williams and I drove a herd for J. J. Welder. We gathered in February, and after branding the cattle on his San Patricio County ranch, we went to his ranch in Refugio County to finish up. We divided the cattle into two herds, having from a one-year-old up to a grown steer. I was given choice of the herds, and took the young cattle 2,000 ones and 500 twos. I soon discovered my mistake, for the young cattle, not being able to stand the hardships of the trail, soon began to give out, and I found myself with a lot of drags, as we called them. We were caught in a severe freeze on Gonzales Prairies, which made matters worse. However, I continued on my journey and reached Fort Worth, where we crossed the river there and went out to Blue Mound to spend a few days resting up. With the assistance of Jim Eeed and Tom Ward, formerly citizens of South Teas, but then living at Fort Worth, I disposed of the drags, about sixty head, at six dollars per head, then resumed our journey and crossed Red River at Red River Station on the eastern trail into the Indian Territory. At the entrance of every reservation I found a sign posted up, ^^One Wohaw,'^ which meant that the Indians wanted one steer to pay for grazing privileges. I always complied with the request and had no trouble, but others who failed to do so had their cattle stampeded at night and probably lost more in the end than I did. We encountered several severe hailstorms on our way, but finally reached Dodge City, where we sold part of our cattle to be delivered at Ogallala, Nebraska. The remaining ones we closed out at Dodge City. We returned home by way of Kansas City, Galveston, Indianola and Victoria.

In 1882 I put 400 head of my cattle into a herd mth J. J. Welder and Wash Moss and I drove for him that year. The herd consisted of 5,000 head, which we gathered and branded at his ranch on the San Antonio River. We divided the cattle into two herds of 2,500 each, and having gained some valuable experience the year before, I chose the herd of older cattle and started on the trail with them. They stampeded every night for ten or twelve nights, and I began to think I had again made a mistake, but they soon got used to the trail and quit giving trouble. I delivered the last of these cattle about twenty miles from Denver, Colorado. We reached Dodge City some time in June, where John sold the grown steers to Major Maberry, who had a contract with the government to furnish the Indians with beef. We delivered 500 to him, I think, the remaining 2,000 of my herd w^ere sold to a banker. Fine Eames, of Denver, to be delivered there. We started the herd from Dodge City, going up the Arkansas Eiver some 200 or 300 miles in order to have plenty of water for the cattle. We also followed a small stream called Sandy Kiver for some distance. We had to drive our cattle up and down this river for two or three hours at a time, then take them out to give the water time to rise, and let them go to the water in small bunches in order for the herd to get sufficient water. We reached the Kit Carson ranch on the Union Pacific or the Kansas Pacific about twenty miles from Denver, where we delivered the herd and the outfit returned home.

Before closing I want to relate one little incident of excitement that happened to me in 1878. While on the trail, after crossing the North Canadian Eiver, I was traveling ahead of the herd to find a stopping place for the night, and after finding a good place, started back to the herd, when I was overtaken by seven Indians. They wanted to swap horses with me, but I would not swap. Then one wanted some cartridges for his gun. I had a belt full, but I pulled out my pistol, held it in my hand and kept right on traveling. One of the Indians grabbed for my hat, but I dodged and kept him from getting it. Finally I saw our lead cattle coming over the hill and pointed to them. The Indians saw the herd and at once quit me, and I felt considerably relieved.

A Woman Trail Driver

At this time in this section of the country good steers could be bought for fifteen dollars, and were often killed for the hides and tallow. The meat was fed to the hogs.

In the early spring of 1871 Mr. Burks rounded up his cattle and topped out a thousand head of the best to take to market. Jasper Clark (better known as ^'Jap") was getting ready to take the Clark herd also, so they planned to keep the two herds not far apart.

They started in April with about ten cowboys each, mostly Mexicans, and the cooks. The cattle were roadbranded at Pinitas and started on the familiar trail. They were only a day out when Marcus Banks, my brother-in-law, came back with a note to me from Mr. Burks asking me to get ready as soon as possible and catch up with the bunch. He also said to bring either Eliza or Nick (black girl and boy who worked for us) to look out for my comfort, and suggested that Nick would be of more help than the girl.

So Nick and I started in my little buggy drawn by two good brown ponies and overtook the herd in a day's time. Nick, being more skilled than the camp cook, prepared my meals. He also put up my tent evenings, and took it down when we broke up camp. It was intended that he should drive my horses when I was tired, but that was not necessary, for the horses often had no need of anyone driving them. They would follow the slowmoving herd unguided, and I would find a comfortable position, fasten the lines and take a little nap.

The cattle were driven only about ten miles a day, or less, so that they would have plenty of time to graze and fatten along the way. They were in good condition w^hen they reached Kansas.

Except when I was lost, I left the bunch only once after starting. On this occasion I went to Concrete, where my sister lived, to have a tent made for the trip.

The Trail Drivers Of Texas 29.7 Mrs. Amanda Burks

Whenever we came to timber we had to rush the cattle through, sometimes driving all day without stopping, for if they were scattered it was almost impossible to gather them again in the thick undergrowth.

Being springtime, the weather was delightful until we reached Central Texas. Some of the worst electrical and hailstorms I have ever witnessed were in this part and also in North Texas. The lightning seemed to settle on the ground and creep along like something alive.

Over in Bosque County late one evening a storm overtook us, and Mr. Burks drove me off into a more sheltered part of the timber. He unfastened the traces from the buggy and gave me the lines, but told me if the horses tried to run to let them go. Hail had begun to fall by this time and he had to hurry back to help the men hold the frightened cattle. Harder and heavier fell the hail, and rain was pouring down in torrents. The horses worked their way around to one side of the buggy, seeking protection, and it seemed that it would be only a few seconds until they pulled away from me entirely. Determined not to let the horses go, I left the shelter of my buggy top and tied the horses with a rope I always carried with me. I got back in the buggy and sat there cold and wet and hungry and all alone in the dark. Homesick ! This is the only time of all the months of my trip that I wished I was back on the old ranch at Banquette.

After what seemed ages to me I could hear the rumble of wagon wheels on the trail, and later still the sound ^ of the beat of a horse's hoofs going the same way; but no one seemed to pay me any mind.

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Later I learned that it was the cook driving the wagon, not knowing which way to go after being lost in the dark woods; and that Mr. Burks rode after him to bring him back to cook supper for the hungry men who had had nothing to eat since morning.

After I heard the return of the wagon the woods rang with the sound of Mr. Burks' voice calling me, and I lost no time in answering. It was one o'clock in the morning when I reached camp.

Mr. Burks and several of the others had big blood blisters on their hands caused by the hail. One of the boys said, *'The beat of the hail on my head mh,de me crazy. I would have run, but didn't know which way to go."

There were few people living along the trail, but when going through Ellis County we saw an old woman sitting in the doorway of a small house stringing beans. We remarked to her that we saw very few women in that part of the country. She answered, **Yes, sir, I'm the first woman that made a track in Dallas County, and I would be back in Tennessee now, only I would have to go through Arkansas to get there. I guess I'll stay right here."

Once when we were camping in Johnson County I heard the bark of dogs followed by several rapid pistol shots. I ran to my tent to see what the trouble was. The Mexican who had charge of the cattle on this relay said that two dogs ran right in among the grazing herd and were about to stampede them when he shot them.

The owner of the dogs appeared soon after the shooting and seemed very downcast over his loss. He said he had *^sure been having hard luck." He had first lost his two sons in the Civil War and had noAv lost his two dogs, which he had trained to keep cattle out of his tiny nearby field. We were sorry for the poor old man, but knew the Mexican did the right thing in preventing a stampede.

We camped a long time at Fort Worth, waiting for the Trinity River to fall low enough to cross our cattle. I counted fifteen herds here waiting to cross.

After we had crossed the Red River we seemed to have left all civilization behind. There were no more fresh fields, green meadows, and timber lands. The sun was so blistering that we hung a cloth inside the top of my buggy to break the heat that came through. Evenings and mornings were so cool that we were uncomfortable.

We had heard of the treacherous Indians and cattle rustlers of the Territory and were always on the lookout for them. The cattle and horses were kept well guarded. One day one of the Mexican cowboys who was on guard duty fell asleep. Mr. Burks could not permit such negligence and told the man that he had to go. All the Mexicans notified Mr. Burks that if this man was '* fired'' that all would go with him. Of course there was no one else to be employed in this uninhabited territory, so we kept the man who had to have his afternoon nap.

We had no unpleasant experiences with the Indians, although they came to camp and tried to trade with the men. We narrowly escaped having trouble with a couple of what we supposed to be rustlers. While alone in camp one afternoon two men came up and were throwing rocks in among the grazing cattle. I called to them to stop and said, ^' Don't you know you'll stampede those cattle," and they answered, *^ That's what we're trying to do." Just then some of the men rode up and the rustlers left hurriedly.

Mr. Burks always kept his horse saddled at night so that he would be ready to go at a word from the boys. As he often helped the men watch the cattle when they were restless, I was sometimes alone in my tent till late at night. On these occasions I sat up fully dressed for any emergency.

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were near, so a guard was left at my tent, but lie was soon called to help with the cattle. A man from the other camp begged me to go over to his camp and stay until the trouble was over, but I told him I preferred my own tent. The men thought me very brave to stay alone at such a time.

Both the Clark and our herds were stampeded one day, supposedly by Indians. It was a horrible yet fascinating sight. Frantic cowboys did all in their power to stop the wild flight, but nothing but exhaustion could check it. By working almost constantly the men gathered the cattle in about a week's time. They were all thrown into one big herd, and the roar of hoof-beats of two thousand milling cattle was almost deafening. The herd was divided into two, then worked back and forth until every cow was in her rightful bunch.

After an experience of this kind the men would be almost exhausted. I felt so sorry for one of them, Branch Isbell, a young tenderfoot, that I persuaded Mr. Burks to let him rest. The boy lay down and was soon sleeping so soundly that he did not hear us breaking camp, and we forgot him when we left. I wanted someone to go back and wake him, but Mr. Burks said that it would be only a little while till he appeared again. The boy overtook us late in the evening, and said that he would not have awakened then if an approaching herd had not almost ran over him.

We seemed to be pursued by fire during our entire trip. The first night we were in the Territory Mr. Burks and I went to sleep, leaving a candle burning, and before we were awakened a box full of trinkets and small articles, including my comb, were in a blaze.

On one occasion a prairie fire ran us out of camp before breakfast. We escaped by fleeing to a part of the plain which had been burned before, called **a burn*' by people of that section.

immense prairie fire. I thouglit I would build a fire in a gulley while the cook had gone for water. Not later than I had struck the match than the grass all around was in a blaze which spread so quickly that the men could not stop it. They succeeded in beating out the flanks of the fire so that it did not spread out at the sides at the beginning. The fire blazed higher than a house and went straight ahead for fifty miles or more. Investigators came next day to find out who the culprit was, and when they learned that it was a woman, nothing was said, except for a remark one of the men made that he was glad that he didn't strike that match.

Once when we were encamped on Emmet Creek a fire crept upon us so quickly that the men barely had time to break up camp and get the cattle to safety. There was not time enough to harness the horses to my buggy, so the men tied ropes to it, told me to jump in, and Ave again fled to a burn. Birds and animals fled with us before the flames.