Two days later, the drive crossed the Iowa state line on its way to Chicago. Rowdy continued to lead the way in spite of his limited knowledge of the area. He had been on this trail only once before. The men hated to leave Omaha’s nightlife but were rejuvenated and ready to start the last leg of the drive. The cows balked a little at first but soon fell into the same pattern they were in before their seven-day rest. It remained hot and dry with very little wind to cool things off; several days ended with a dry camp, causing the herd to be both fatigued and jittery.
August passed into September as they traveled through the flat land of central Iowa. Only a month remained if everything went as planned. The fall weather was changing as the days passed. The nights were becoming cooler, and afternoon temperatures only rose to the low-eighties; rain showers were more frequent.
It was a hot and muggy afternoon when black clouds started accumulating behind them. The cooks had stopped to wipe out the oxen’s nostrils when Boss rode up. “There’s weather brewing in the west, and it’s coming our way,” he said. “The herd is nervous like they’re sensing a storm.”
“The conditions are perfect for a thunderstorm,” reflected Rowdy. “Animals can tell when a storm’s on its way.”
“I agree. Why don’t you find a stopping place with grass and water?” Boss suggested. “Let’s get the herd situated before it hits.”
Thirty minutes later, a suitable location presented itself to the cooks, but before the herd arrived the wind had picked up and raindrops had started to fall. Black clouds were rolling toward them, and most likely the storm would be over the herd within the hour.
Boss rode to each man, giving explicit instructions. “Let’s get ready for the storm. Tighten the circle, but stay on the extreme outside of the cows. If we have lightning and thunder, they might stampede. If they do start running, ride as fast as you can away from the herd, don’t take any chances. We can gather the herd after the storm passes.”
The cows came to the stopping place with frightened eyes and their heads held high. None were grazing or going for water, even though they had not drunk for nearly a day and the stream was only a short distance away. The herd riders sang sweet songs, hoping to settle the animals, but it seemed to have little effect.
Knowing that running cows will usually avoid a wooded area, Rowdy pulled the wagon into a cluster of trees and tied the oxen securely. Turning to Scar, he gave firm orders. “Don’t take any chances. Stay here among the trees even though you might see trouble coming. I’ll be out helping the men, but you stay here.” Scar nodded.
Lightning bolts flashed, and thunder echoed in the near west, but the cattle didn’t panic.
Within minutes, black clouds moved directly over the herd, bringing strong winds and heavy, sideways rain. Flashes of lightning brightened the landscape. The storm caused the cows to gather more compactly and circle about, pushing against one another. Occasionally, a cow would be pushed down on the slippery mud and get trampled.
Then it happened. Two quick flashes of lightning were followed by two loud claps of thunder, causing a long-horned cow to swing her head in fright and jab her horn into the neck of a cow standing by. The injured animal let out a loud bellowing sound, and the cows started.
A cowhand shouted, “We have a stampede. The cows are running.”
Shortly after the cows started running, Scar climbed to the wagon seat for a better view and noticed a change taking place in the shape of the running herd. The cows in the rear were swinging to the east and then racing to the front, creating a closing circle of cows that would soon encompass two riders. Scar knew the men would be trampled if the herd tightened and the circle closed completely.
Without hesitation, he ran for Maude. By the time he was riding parallel with the endangered riders, the herd had already closed the circle around the men. Scar remained riding outside the herd and had to make a quick decision. Should he keep safe or should he try to save the men? Knowing Maude, unlike most horses, would likely keep a calm head, he started for the closest rider. Maude kept pace with the running cows and was making slow progress toward the man. She was constantly being battered by the rushing cows, and on two occasions, stumbled but regained her footing and moved onward with caution. One of the long, sharp horns that was swinging about penetrated Maude’s right shoulder, carving a four-inch tear in her skin. Scar was looking for other possible injuries to Maude when a horn found his right thigh, causing excruciating pain. His blood-soaked pant leg turned black.
From the corner of his vision, Scar saw the second rider’s horse stumble and fall under the pounding cow hooves, followed by a scream. He looked in the direction of the scream, trying to locate the second rider, but the man and his horse had disappeared.
Maude was within ten yards of the pursuing cowhand when Scar saw the rider turn his horse across the path of the running herd, causing the horse to lose its footing and be quickly pushed down. For a few brief seconds, the cows ran wide of the fallen horse and its rider, giving Maude enough time to reach the horseless cowhand. Scar grabbed the man’s outreached hand and pulled him onto Maude as the cows rushed by. Maude kept her head and worked her way from the running animals into safety.
Minutes later, cowhands stood on a small knoll with Scar, watching the last of the herd run by. Scar looked intently for the fallen rider’s body but couldn’t see it. He did see several dead cows scattered about. In spite of his throbbing leg and the blood dripping from his soaked pant leg onto his boot, he mounted Maude and rode in search of the cowhand’s remains.
The storm had passed, but the rain was still coming down when Scar led Maude into camp with a mangled body draped over her. Several men came forward to identify the body and take it down from Maude when Boss and Rowdy rode up. All the men had gathered around the fallen man, except for the rider Scar had saved. He sat some distance away with his head lowered, shaking like a leaf. Boss was walking toward the corpse when he saw blood on the wet, trampled grass.
“Who’s been hurt?” he called out.
Scar hesitated but answered, “I’ve got a cut, Boss. A cow horned me.”
Boss walked over to assess Scar’s wound. There was a deep gash in his leg still oozing blood. “Rowdy,” he called, “Scar’s injured—take care of him while I get the boys organized.” He gave subdued orders, and some men went out to scout the herd; others started for the shovels.
When Rowdy fetched his doctoring bag from the wagon, Scar spoke up. “I’m fine. Let’s tend to Maude’s injuries.”
“We’ll tend to your leg first. The bleeding has to be stopped. Maude will be fine till we’re finished with you.” Rowdy readied ointment, bandages, and a curved needle with thread. “Take off your pants and pull down your drawers. No need to cut up perfectly good garments.” Scar hesitated but followed orders.
Rowdy took a look at the gash and said, “You’ve got a bad wound, Scar. I’ve got to clean it and pour whiskey in it to keep it from going bad. It’ll burn for a minute or two. When the burning stops, I’ll have to put in eight to ten stitches. It won’t hurt much while I’m doing the sewin’.”
After Rowdy finished sewing up the wound, he wrapped the damaged area with a clean cloth, and Scar put his clothes back on.
He was in pain, but he attended the cowhand’s burial. He watched the body being lowered and covered as Boss spoke words. It was emotional, but at the same time sobering. Each man knew he could have been the departed one.
Supper was eaten in silence that evening. Afterward, when cups were filled, Boss spoke up. “Men, we’ve experienced a terrible tragedy, one we won’t forget, but we must continue our work. We all made a commitment to Henry James when we signed on, to drive these cattle to market, and as difficult as it might be, we must honor our obligation. I’m not asking you to have a jolly attitude, but I am telling you to collect yourselves and get on with your jobs.” Boss continued by outlining his plans to round up the herd, starting around noon the following day. He explained that giving the cows this much time to settle themselves and graze with plenty of water would help the drive go easier.
Scar sat with the men during supper, but then excused himself and placed his bedroll several yards from the campfire. No matter which way he lay, he couldn’t get comfortable. And even with the additional blankets Rowdy placed on him, he couldn’t get warm. Rowdy had been observing his patient’s entire ordeal and knew he was having a chill, so he brought him a cup of coffee to warm his insides. It tasted good. What Scar didn’t know was Rowdy had laced the drink with two fingers of whiskey. After two cups, he became comfortable and fell sound asleep.
Scar hobbled around for the next three days while his wound healed. During a noon break on the fourth day after the storm, Boss filled his cup and took a seat beside him. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “How’s your leg?”
“I’m doing a lot better,” Scar responded. “I’ll be getting back to work tomorrow.”
“That’s good to hear, but I have another job for you. That is if you’re agreeable?”
“I’m agreeable to anything that’ll help the drive, Boss. Just tell me what I’m to do.”
“We only have twelve men to drive the herd, and that’s not enough. We need you to be a trail rider.”
“How about Rowdy? Can he get by without my help?”
“He came up with the idea, says it’s time you were becoming a trail hand.”
Scar responded, “Then, I’ll be ready in the morning at first light.”
Boss had taken a few steps when he turned with a question. “Do you own a handgun, Scar?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“Have you ever shot a handgun?”
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“You’ll need one. You can have Joe’s.”
“Shouldn’t we send his gun back to his family, Boss?”
“He doesn’t have any living relatives I know of,” was the response.
Boss paused before leaving. “Tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to use a handgun.” As Boss was walking away, a big smile came to Scar. I’m going to be a trail rider. But then a nervous thought came. I’ll be wearing a handgun.
As a trail rider starting out, Scar knew he would have the most undesirable jobs on the drive. He would have to ride in the dust and contend with the weak and lazy cows. But he didn’t care—he was a trail rider now and proud of it.
It took him a few days to learn the techniques, but he soon caught on and pulled his weight. He now rode the Henry James horses, which allowed Maude time to fully recuperate. She moseyed along behind the chuck wagon, carrying a few things for Rowdy.
Day after day, the herd plodded on. The days were long and the work was hard, but the riders were dedicated to their work, so the drive continued as planned. There were problems, though. When cows got stuck in bogs or quicksand, for example, men would have to dig down in the mud and put ropes around the animal’s hind legs to pull them out, leaving the men covered in grime from head to toe.
It was late afternoon when the wagon topped a small hill, and the Mississippi River came into sight. Rowdy called the team to a stop and climbed down in wonderment.
Scar was riding in the lead edge of the herd when he saw the wagon stop nearly a half mile ahead. The cows were walking in a calm, steady pace, so he headed for the wagon in a trot. He climbed down and stood by Rowdy. Both men were eyeing the river. It was the second time Scar had seen the Mississippi. The first time was when he traveled up the river to St. Louis with his father. He had felt safe on the large riverboat, but crossing the river by hanging onto a horse’s saddle was almost unthinkable.
“How are we going to get the herd across, Rowdy?” Scar asked in a subdued tone.
“That’s for Boss to figure out, but while we’re waiting, we might as well get a fire going and have coffee ready for the men. You get the wood, and I’ll get the pot ready.”
When the cows caught up, they bypassed the wagon and continued to the river for water. The men had gathered at the wagon with looks of disbelief at the magnitude of the river. Cups had been filled a couple times when Boss stepped to the center.
“Men, I know the crossing looks impossible, but it’s been done before, and we’ll do it again. I won’t soft-peddle the danger. We’ll lose several head of cows in the crossing process, and perhaps a drowning might occur. We must be extremely careful. The good news is the river’s water level is very low with practically no current. I’ll ride up and down the river to find the best place to cross. Maybe we can find a sandbar to rest on and won’t have to cross the entire river at one time.”
“How will we get the chuck wagon across, Boss?”
“We’ll build a raft.” Heads turned in response to Boss’ comment.
Three days later, the herd was moved upstream to a perfect location for crossing. The river made a turn that caused a deep but narrow channel on its west side. On the east side of the channel was a wide sandbar that extended over halfway across the river. And the water depth on the east side of the sandbar was shallow enough for the cows to walk.
In spite of the location and the low water level, over thirty cows drowned in the crossing and some cows floated down river, never to be found.
The days following the crossing were long. They started before sunrise and didn’t stop until twilight. Every man knew they were in a race to beat the trains. If they lost, the Chicago cattle pens would be full, and prices would be low. If they arrived ahead of the trains, the slaughter plants would bid against one another, resulting in high prices. No man on the drive wanted to get to Chicago and find the pens filled.
It was mid-October when the Henry James’ herd of trail-weary cattle entered Chicago and headed for the pens. The wranglers who drove them were tired, dirty, and ready for a change. Though the drive ended with the loss of two men and at least a hundred and fifty cows, the men were jubilant when they found the pens empty. As hoped, several buyers were eager to place their bids. Boss haggled all afternoon and finally settled on an offer of twenty-six dollars a head from the Swift and Company, one of the most respected slaughter plants in the Midwest.
After going to the Cattlemen’s Bank, Boss paid the men their agreed upon wage of twenty-five dollars a month, plus a five-dollar bonus for their extra effort. Each man got one hundred thirty-five dollars in total. Scar waited for the others to leave before approaching Boss. “You paid me too much,” he said. “Our agreement was fifteen a month.”
“We pay what a man earns,” Boss said firmly. “You’ve earned every penny. You started the drive as a young man with unknown qualities, but quickly were doing your share of the work. You’ve earned the respect of everyone on the drive. You’ll do to ride the river with, Scar. You’ve become a man and should receive a man’s wage.”
“Thank you, sir.” Scar waited until Boss had stored the sale papers before asking, “What’ll you do now?”
“Rowdy and I will head back to the ranch in a couple of days. I imagine most of the men will hang around town having a good time until their money runs out. Then they’ll ride the grub line back to the James spread in time for the spring roundup.”
“Why do the men keep coming back, Boss? The job is hard and dangerous, and the pay;s not great for the time they put in.”
“They hate the trail,” he said with a smile. “But they love riding for the brand. It gets in their blood. What about you, Scar? What are your plans?”
“I saw a HELP WANTED sign on one of the slaughter plants. Thought I might apply and work a few months before returning.”
Boss countered, “It’s a hard, nasty job, but the pay’s pretty good, as I understand.”
Two days after the herd was sold, Boss and Rowdy checked out of their Chicago hotel and started home. Scar was sad to see them leave and reluctant to stay behind. But his plans were firm. He was going to apply for a job at one of the slaughter plants.
He was anxious to start looking for a job, so he ate a hearty noon meal at the hotel and headed south for the plants, riding Maude. His first stop was the Swift and Company plant, six blocks south of his hotel. After a short interview with the plant manager, Scar was hired. He would start work the next morning at six o’clock. He was told the daily work hours would be from ten to twelve hours, and the pay was one dollar for a full day’s work. When Scar asked about living quarters, the manager said, “There’s a place called Millie’s Boarding House one block west of here. It’s not the nicest in town, but I understand the rates are low and the meals are good. They also have a barn for your horse.” Scar noticed the manager glancing at his scar several times during the interview, but the man didn’t ask about it.
Scar tied Maude to the hitching rail in front of Millie’s Boarding House, climbed five steps to the front door, and knocked. An elderly woman came to the door and invited him in. “I’m Millie,” she said, but she didn’t offer a last name. “I’m the owner of this place. I’m also the cook.” After a few minutes of getting acquainted, Scar was told there was a room available on the second floor, and the weekly rent fee of two dollars and fifty cents included breakfast and supper. It also included a stall in the barn for his mule; the hay would be extra. The rent was to be paid in advance.
Scar paid Millie the two dollars and fifty cents and made arrangements to move his belongings in later that evening. He looked at his room and then went to the barn. The plant manager at Swift was right—the facilities weren’t the nicest. The outside needed some repairs and painting, but they were adequate for a trail hand such as him.
Going to the hotel to check out and get his belongings, he passed a café called The Dew Drop Inn three doors down from Millie’s Boarding House. The café’s hours were from five a.m. to seven p.m. “That’ll be a convenient place to lounge and have coffee,” he thought.
Both of Boss’ predictions came true. The Henry James ranch hands left Chicago two weeks later with empty pockets. And the slaughter plant work was nasty with long, hard hours. Scar worked in the gut room, cleaning up the slaughter remains and washing the floor. He had very little leisure time except for Sundays. He spent a few afternoons at the Dew Drop Inn, drinking coffee and reading the Chicago newspaper. Occasionally, he would attend something special, like a play at the theater, and during the Christmas season he rode Maude to the downtown area a couple of times, looking at displays and watching people scurrying about.
The Chicago winter was depressing to Scar. The days were short and always gloomy; it seemed the sun never shined. It was during one of these depressed times in February that Scar wrote a letter to Liz and one to the Double D folks. He wrote about his boarding house room and described his work the best he could and wrote about the theater and other events he had attended. He ended by saying how much he missed them and his life at the ranch.
Spring finally came with sunny days. Heavy coats could be shed, flowers were starting to come up, and streets were becoming busier with people scurrying about. People were friendlier, including Scar.
His plan was to hold his job until late May and then leave for Colorado. However, one week before he planned to leave, he was offered a supervisory position, managing the carcass aging room with a salary of forty dollars a month. He accepted.
The new job was in a clean environment but involved backbreaking work. Carcass halves, weighing over two hundred pounds, were carted into the huge room where men would lift and hang them from a suspended ceiling rod. After sixty days of aging, the carcasses were lowered for shipment. Large ice blocks cut from local lakes during the winter were stacked in one corner of the room, keeping the temperature at fifty degrees. Scar supervised eighteen men. A lot of time passed.
Scar spent most of his spare time at the Dew Drop Inn, drinking coffee with new friends. Their conversations covered most everything, from weather to politics and everything in between. On one occasion, they had a cake sitting on a table when he came in. It was his nineteenth birthday.
One summer day, Scar poured himself a cup of coffee at the Dew Drop and sat down to read the newspaper. He was floored at the headlines. MASSACRE AT LITTLE BIGHORN. It went on to say that on June 26, 1876, Lt. Col. George A. Custer and two hundred and sixty-three of his battalion were killed by an Indian uprising.
A week later Scar quit his job. He had acquired a good reputation as a supervisor and was offered another promotion with excellent pay, but he wanted to go home. He wanted to see his family. He wanted to see Liz.
Hardly a day had passed during the previous two years that Liz had not been in his thoughts. Now, Scar found himself sitting in his room, becoming anxious, even excited about seeing her. “Has she changed much?” he wondered. “Has she grown taller? Does she still have freckles? Was she still perky and kind of bossy?” He tried to imagine what Liz was doing right then—halfway hoping she was thinking of him.