(from James H. Cook,
Fifty Years on the Old Frontier, 1923)
THE LURE OF CATTLE ranching in Texas was low overhead and high profits. Maverick cattle were free for the acquiring. Grazing land was the open range. A herd of one thousand head of cattle doubled in size in two years and doubled again in four. In a land of surplus cattle the problem was how to convert a four-dollar longhorn on the hoof in Texas into eight to fifteen dollars cash up north, for in those days there were no railroads in Texas. The answer was to drive the “beeves” to the nearest railroad junction.
In the heyday of the trail drives, six hundred thousand longhorns were herded each year six to eight hundred miles north to the nearest railroad junction to be sold and shipped east aboard the waiting cattle trains. Later drives stretched up to fifteen hundred miles to reach Wyoming and Montana ranches, the Rocky Mountain mining camps, and government posts supplying food to the Indians. One trail boss with eight to eleven cowboys could move twelve hundred to fifteen hundred longhorns north at the rate of eight to ten miles a day without losing weight and market value.
Before the Civil War the Shawnee Trail was the major cattle route. It ran northeast from Texas to St. Louis, at that time the nearest railroad link to Chicago. Later the railroad extended its tracks to Sedalia, Missouri, then Kansas City, which became the next cattle terminus. The Civil War (1861–1865) interrupted this traffic as Texas cowboys and ranch hands left to join the Confederate Army, while men from Missouri and Kansas mustered under the Union flag.
After the Civil War the Chisholm Trail became the next major route. It ran due north from Texas, crossed seven treacherous rivers, which the cattle had to swim, and cut through Indian Territory (now Oklahoma) to meet the railroad at Abilene, Kansas.
Farmers followed the railroad track westward as it was laid down. They bought up land and fenced it off with newfangled barbed wire for pasture and crops. In order to skirt the advancing “nesters” and the Indians, who by federal law could charge a toll tax per head, the cow trail again shifted west. In 1871 the Western Trail and a western branch of the Chisholm Trail joined the railroad at Dodge City, Kansas.
Danger lurked along the cow trail. Nature sowed locoweed and poisoned water holes with alkaline. Drought could dry up the land and shrivel the grass. Upland rains created flash floods on the Red, Washita, Canadian, North Canadian, and Cimarron Rivers. Quicksand was prevalent. Thunderstorms brought lightning and hail large enough to kill jackrabbits and prairie dogs. Indians and rustlers lay in wait—begging, stealing by stampede, or demanding a toll tax in cattle. And about once a decade a national financial panic could scuttle the dollar value of cattle.
Even the Kansas farmers became the cowboy’s nemesis. The impervious herds from Texas carried the dreaded Spanish tick fever, which decimated the cattle on the northern farms. Kansas issued a law imposing a heavy toll tax on passing Texas herds and even gave farmers the right to keep the trail drivers out by the point of a gun.
By 1884 a trail boss complained: “Now there is so much land taken up and fenced in, that the trail for most of the way is little better than a crooked lane, and we have a hard time trying to find enough range to feed on. These fellows from Ohio, Indiana, and other northern states—the ‘bone and sinew,’ as the politicians call them—have made farms, enclosed
pastures, and fenced water holes till you can’t rest; and I say damn such bone and sinew!” Such was the slow demise of the long trails “north of 36”—hastened by barbed wire and expanding railroads.
On every trail drive, there was constant danger of thunderstorms setting off stampedes, especially at night. Here is a living, breathing account of a stampede from the writings of Ramon F. Adams, James H. Cook, and Philip Ashton Rollins.
WHEN WE REACH the bed-ground most of the cattle’s already down, lookin’ comfortable. They’re bedded in open country, an’ things look good for an easy night. It’s been mighty hot all day, but there’s a little breeze now makin’ it right pleasant; but down the west I notice some nasty-lookin’ clouds hangin’ ’round the new moon that’s got one horn hooked over the skyline. The storm’s so far off that you can just hear her rumble, but she’s walkin’ up on us slow, an’ I’m hopin’ she’ll go ’round. The cattle’s all layin’ quiet an’ nice, so me an’ Longrope stop to talk awhile.
“They’re layin’ quiet,” says I.
“Too damn quiet,” says he. “I like cows to lay still all right, but I want some of the natural noises that goes with a herd this size. I want to hear ’em blowin’ off, an’ the creakin’ of their joints, showin’ they’re easin’ themselves in their beds. Listen, an’ if you hear anything I’ll eat that rimfire saddle of yours—grass rope an’ all.”
I didn’t notice till then, but when I straighten my ears it’s quiet as a grave. An’ if it ain’t for the lightnin’ showin’ the herd once in a while, I couldn’t a-believed that seventeen hundred head of longhorns lay within forty feet of where I’m sittin’ on my hoss. It’s gettin’ darkers every minute, an’ if it wasn’t for Longrope’s slicker I couldn’t a-made him out, though he’s so close I could have touched him with my hand. Finally it darkens so I can’t see him at all. It’s black as a nigger’s pocket; you couldn’t find your nose with both hands. All of a sudden it got warm and sticky, and there was a thick, muffled feelin’ in the air. It wasn’t long till the air moved kinda heavy and seemed to be saturated with sulphurous smoke. Then thunder began to mutter beyond the air, a hush as if the world held its breath before a calamity, and the cattle began to grow more restless.
Steadily it growed darker, and I could see two dense clouds were convergin’ in heavy ragged columns. The air became oppressive to my lungs. Suddenly a flash of lightnin’ licked silently toward the cloud banks. I waited for the thunder, countin’ off the seconds till it should strike. Then it burst with a muffled sound and a long rumble. By now the cattle that’d been lyin’ down got to their feet and let out an uneasy bawl or two.
Then the sky growed blacker; the slow-gatherin’ clouds appeared to be suddenly agitated; they piled and rolled and mushroomed. The storm was upon us with thunder growlin’ threats and lightnin’ playin’ behind the sullen jumble of black clouds. A fork of white lightnin’ flashed, and like a boomin’ avalanche, thunder followed. A blue-white knotted rope of lightnin’ burned down out of the clouds, and instantly a thunderclap cracked, seemin’ to shake the foundations of the earth. Then it rolled as if bangin’ from cloud to cloud, and boomin’ along the peaks, and at last rolled away into silence till the next one.
For a second it’ll be like broad day, then darker than the dungeons of hell, an’ I notice the little fireballs on my hoss’s ears; when I spit there’s a streak in the air like strikin’ a wet match. These little fireballs is all I can see of my hoss, an’ they tell me he’s listenin’ all ways; his ears are never still.
I tell you, there’s something mighty ghostly about sittin’ up on a hoss you can’t see, with them two little blue sparks out in front of you wigglin’ and movin’ like a pair of spook eyes, an’ it shows me the old night hoss is usin’ his listeners pretty plenty. I got my ears cocked, too.
Then when all was panic in the pitchy black, made more terrifyin’ by the sizzlin’, spittin’, snappin’ flashes of lightnin’, the cattle were suddenly gone.
There was some confusion, some crowdin’, here and there a jumble of bodies where a steer had stumbled; but those of us on guard saw nothin’ of it, and even while we wheeled our hosses for pursuit, the herd was gone thunderin’ in the darkness.
Always the thunder boomed overhead, and by lightnin’ flashes I glimpsed the boilin’ sea of cattle fleein’, with only blind fear crowdin’ at their heels. The noise of their hoofs was engulfin’. It sounded like hell migratin’ on cartwheels. Their bellowin’ was an even higher roar than the thunder of their hoofs, and through all this noise I could hear the clackin’ horns and the collidin’ of bodies. The rush of horns looked like a movin’ thicket of skeleton brush. The earth shook.
Panic-stricken, wild with fright, the cattle ran over bushes and gullies, badlands and prairie-dog holes…anythin’ and everythin’ that came in their way. All the riders were now in their saddles, racin’ at top speed through the pitchy blackness of the night, guided only by the sounds of the fleein’ animals, and dependin’ to a great degree on the eyesight of their horses to keep ’em near the cattle, and to avoid bad gulches into which all might pile.
It had now become so dark that it was impossible for me to see the cattle except durin’ the flashes of lightnin’ which came with blindin’ effect every few seconds. I rode at the top speed of my hoss in order to reach the lead cattle and help my pard turn ’em. Between the flashes of lightnin’ the darkness was so intense that I could not even see the hoss I was ridin’.
When the lightnin’ struck I could see him ahead racin’ neck and neck with the lead cattle, with his hoss in so close to the plungin’ mass that he must have felt their hot breath was on his leg and the smell of panic in his nostrils. He was usin’ his slicker as a flail, bringin’ it down with wide, overhead strokes into the faces of the foremost steers. He was yellin’, screamin’, cussin’ them wild brutes to get their close-packed bodies to yield.
The cattle ran in the direction of the rough ground and the creek channel, where the banks were very high and perpendicular.
A sudden flash of lightnin’ lit the surroundin’s jes in time to save my life and picture the scene I can never forget.
My companion and his hoss seemed poised in mid-air for a moment far out over the edge of the high bank of the creek! Several head of cattle were leapin’ after him to certain death.
My hoss needed a tug at the reins to stop his headlong rush. He braced his forefeet into the earth suddenly and firmly enough to bring ’im to a sudden halt, not more than five or six feet from the edge of the bluff over which my companion had just disappeared. How it happen that the cattle followin’ in my rear did not crash against my horse and send up both over the bank, I shall never know. An instant of blindin’ light, and then intense inky darkness reigned again.
In the Egyptian blackness I was helpless, so far as goin’ to the aid of my pard was concerned. I knew that, because of the darkness of the night, I should hardly be able to find a place to get down into the creek bed to go to his aid.
After every night stampede there was a counting of human noses. This was done with anxiety which always was as tender in spirit as it was flippant in form. The riders, returning one by one during the next day’s morning hours, came into camp, and an atmosphere of banter—banter which, in joking phrases and with several participants, ran on one occasion somewhat as follows: “Hulloa, Shorty, where’d you come from? Thought you was dead…Where’s Baldy? Guess he’s gone off to git married…No, he ain’t. Here he…
The banter suddenly ceased, for as soon as Jack had come completely over the top of the hill and into clear view, he had begun to ride rapidly in a small circle. This was one of the equestrian Indians’ two signals of important news or of request for strangers to advance for parley, and was often used by whites as a messenger of like import or serious tidings. At the first circle, some one remarked, “Mebbe Jack’s playing with a rattler. No, he ain’t. There he goes again. He’s shore signaling,” while some one else added, “Jack wouldn’t do that for no cows. It must be Skinny.” The camp had risen to its feet and started for the tethered ponies.
Suddenly there floated down the breeze three faint popping sounds evenly spaced. The wind had shifted, and its new course straight from Jack to the camp giving promise that sounds would carry thither, he had used his gun. The camp gasped, “My God, it’s Skinny,” and then the foreman said, with machine-gun rapidity but icily quiet tone, “Pete, quick, get them two clean shirts that’s drying on the wagon tongue. We may need ’em for bandages.” Nobody mentioned anything about a shovel, but a collision at the wagon’s tailboard and the sound of rasping metal showed that three men instinctively had sought for the sometimes sad utensil, and that it was in hand.
In rapid strides of exaggerated length the punchers approached their horses. One beast shied away, but stopped the instant there rang out with tinny sound, “Damn you, Bronc, quit that,” and thereafter the brute crouched and trembled and made no opposition to taking its bit and saddle. Bits were driven into horses’ mouths like wedges into split logs. No effort was made to gather in cinches and offside latigos, to lay them atop the saddles, and to place latter gently on the ponies’ backs. The saddles, each grasped by the horn and cantle, were waved in air to straighten out the latigos, and were slapped onto cringing backs with a sound like that of a slatting sail on a windy day.
At times like this when men were fierce and in a killing mood, their horses seemed to sense the situation. The most chronic buckers would forgo their pitching avocation, and, squatting low in tremor, would receive their load and never make a single jump.
The camp moved out to waiting Jack, and with it went the two clean shirts, each clutched against the rider’s chest.
There were jerky, vertical single nods of heads, Jack supplementing his own nod by one later, slow horizontal turning of his head to right and then to left. A gentle sigh rose from the arriving punchers, two hands impotently opened and let two shirts flutter to the ground. Jack’s inquiring look was answered by Ike’s slight raising of the handle of the shovel, which thus far he had endeavored to conceal. Then came the first spoken words. Jack commenced the conversation, and in part it ran: “He’s up at the end of the big draw, right by the split rock. Went over that high cut bank, him and a mess of cattle. He’s lyin under ’em. He never knowed what hit him…No, I warn’t with him. Just now seen his sign as I was coming acrost. I seen it was headed for the cut bank, so I chasséd over there.” The foreman added: “Well, boys, let’s get at it.”
Then the little funeral cortege, having silently smoked a cigarette or two, fell into jiggling troll and headed for the big draw.
The funerals of the men who died in this way, of many Western men, were deeply affecting from their crude, sincere simplicity. About the open grave, which was at merely “somewhere on the plain,” would gather a serious-faced little group. The body, wrapped in a saddle-blanket, would be lowered gently into its resting-place, and then would come a pause. Each attendant strongly wished that some appropriate statement might be made either to God or about the dead; but each man felt himself unequal to the task, and stood nervously wiping his forehead. Perhaps the strain wrung from some one person a sudden ejaculation. If so, the requirement for utterance had been satisfied, and all the mourners felt a buoyant sense of relief. If nobody spoke, some wandering eye fastened on the shovel. Whether by the ending of the spoken words or by the recognition of the spade, the signal for the filling of the grave had come.
When the filled-in earth had been pounded to smoothness and had been overlaid with rocks, as a barrier to marauding animals, it was time to leave. That parting would not be accomplished or even begun until there had terminated the strained, awkward silence under which most American men cloak their deeper feelings. The silence usually was ended by an expression spontaneously emitted from overwrought nerves, and often profane in form though not in intent. Speech broke the tension, horses were remounted, and the world was faced again.
At the foot of one of the noblest peaks in the Rocky Mountains lies a grave. Its occupant died in a stampede. All that was said at the interment came out hesitatingly and as follows: “It’s too bad, too bad. Tom, dig a little deeper there. Hell, boys, he was a man,” and presently, when the burial had been completed, “Bill, we boys leave you to God and the mountain. Good-by, Bill. Damn it, Jim, look out for your bronc.”