THE TRAIL DRIVERS OF TEXAS
541
HAD PLENTY OF FUN
By Gus Black, Eagle Pass, Texas
I have no time to write books. If I gave all of my experience
on the trail it would fill this book and then some. From 1875 to
1882 I suppose I had more experience, good and bad, than any
one man on the trail, with Indians, buffalo, horse rustlers, and
cutthroats, and during that time I worked eighteen hours out of
every twenty-four. Wound up in 1882 without a dollar in hand,
but in possession of several thousand dollars worth of fun. I am
now seventy-one years old and can ride a horse just the same as
of old. I have been right here in Texas ever since the morning
star first "riz," and when you publish your next book I hope to be
a retired stockman, for my time will then be my own, and I will
give you something good. However, since you insist, I will relate
a few incidents and you can arrange them to suit yourself.
I went up the trail the first time with Ben Duncan and Jim
Speed of Frio county, and the second time with Woodward &
Oge of the same county. For many years I was boss for Lytle &
McDaniel and Lytle & Schreiner.
One year while on the trail we found Red River out of banks at
Red River Station, with fifteen or twenty herds there waiting to
cross. I was in charge of a herd of 3500 cattle and was anxious to
get across. The toll man was demanding $1.25 per head for
crossing cattle at that point, but I was determined not to pay it,
for the total amount seemed too high, so of two high things I
decided to choose the river. While my herd was stopped on the
Texas side of the river, and the toll collector was absent, I swam
across to the other side and made arrangements with a man over
there to come and ferry my wagons over. Then I swam back and
got from two to five men from each outfit there to help me. This
gave
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THE TRAIL DRIVERS OF TEXAS
[Full-page photo omitted — GUS BLACK]
THE TRAIL DRIVERS OF TEXAS
543
me a bunch of some forty or fifty men and we pushed my cattle
right into the raging river and rushed them across. Just as we
emerged on the other side the toll man appeared on the bank we
had left and I yelled back to him: "You are too slow to collect
from Gus Black."
I delivered many cattle for Lytle & Schreiner in Wyoming and
Nebraska. One year this firm sold several herds to Governor
Bush of Wyoming. One trip Governor Bush came out to meet
the herd in company with Captain Lytle, and we entertained him
in camp. That morning I had found a couple of long horns which
had slipped off the head of a dead cow on the trail, and in a spirit
of fun I fitted them onto the just-sprouting horns of a dogie
yearling with our drags. That little old yearling was a comic
sight with those great long horns on its head, and caused lots of
fun for the boys. When Governor Bush was looking over the
herd he espied this "long-horned" yearling, and began to hurrah
Captain Lytle about the animal. I told the Governor that it was
just a yearling, but he said it was a four-year-old, and would bet
any amount of money on its age. I told him I would bet $200 it
was a yearling. He promptly covered the bet, saying he knew I
was a hard-working man, and he hated to take my money, but he
wanted to prove my ignorance and teach me a lesson. At the
same time he said he would just as soon bet me $1000, but knew
I could not afford to lose that much money. I told him to put it
up, that I always "blowed in" my money anyhow and would just
as soon let him win it as anybody else. So the bet was made, and
then I roped the dogie and took those horns off. Governor Bush
was dumbfounded, and the laugh was on him. When settlement
came around I told him to keep his money, as he was so d—d
ignorant I just wanted to teach him a lesson. Then he set up the
whiskey and cigars to the outfit.
On another trip, after we crossed Smoky River we
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encountered a colony of grangers who made it a rule to charge
every herd fifty dollars for permitting passage through their
community. I rode into the village and consulted with their chief
leader who informed me that the charge was made to pay for
inspecting herds for contagious diseases, etc. I told him I had no
money but would give him a draft on Captain Lytle, which he
said would be satisfactory as Captain Lytle's check was good
anywhere in the world. He asked me to kindly add another ten
dollars to the amount for tobacco for the villagers, which I did,
and then put my herd through. The first telegraph station I
reached I wired Captain Lytle that I had been buncoed out of
sixty dollars and to refuse to pay the draft. Those fellows were
skinning us and I figured that turn about was fair play.
I am glad George Saunders took the lead in the organization of
the trail drivers of the early days, for such an association has long
been needed to preserve the history of the rugged noble men who
made the cattle industry. I hope to live to see the day when that
monument suggested by Mr. Saunders is placed on the old trail as
a tribute to those who have gone their way and a reminder to
oncoming generations that we "blazed the trail" and vouchsafed
unto them peace, happiness and prosperity.
SLUMBERED THROUGH THE SHOOTING
By H. H. Peel, Jourdanton, Texas
I went up the trail the first time in the spring of 1881 with a
Crouch Brothers' herd from Frio county, in charge of George
Wilcox.
We had the usual experiences of driving and
stampeding, and at Doan's Store on Red River a near-shooting.
Fortunately the bad man's pistol hung in the scabbard and as he
was well covered by sev-
THE TRAIL DRIVERS OF TEXAS
545
eral guns he had to accept orders and leave. In the Territory we
had, I suppose, the usual tense moments when the short-barreled
hairtrigger boys wanted to cut our herd for strays, and Wilcox
would not stand for it. We did not have trouble with this outfit
who wanted to cut our herd because the leader recognized Wilcox
as a friend who had once given him a horse, saddle and gun to
leave a section of country where he was "wanted," so he was very
anxious to do something in return for the favor. He offered to
stop the fellow we had turned off at Doan's Store, and who had
threatened to follow us up and "get" one of our men, our new
friend saying he would not have any trouble, just tell some
Indians he knew that a bad man and a good horse were coming
and he would never get by. George refused to give him a
description of the man.
We arrived at Dodge City, took in the lively town, then put
two Crouch herds together and drove them to Ogallala with Dick
Crewes as boss. There I left them and went East and to England.
Went again in 1885, I think, to Caldwell, Kansas, and from
there to Camp Supply and delivered to D. R. Fant at his ranch,
then took the mail hack to Kiowa, and the trip and gypsum water
wore me out, so I went to the hotel in Kiowa, a board affair, to
rest. Some Texas boys who had had a difference with the town
marshal were in the adjoining room, and I slept through all the
shooting, though some twenty shots were fired by the posse from
the street and the boys from the windows, the marshal being
wounded. The boys were still in their room when. I left the next
morning.
Those old days may have been a little rough at times, but there
was always such kindness and good feeling among the boys it is a
pleasure worth remembering to have been one of them
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ANOTHER SUCCESSFUL COWMAN
By J. B. Murrah, San Antonio, Texas
My parents were James M. and Malinda A. Murrah. I was
born in Goliad county, Texas, August 24, 1856, and lived there
with my parents until the fall of 1865, when father moved to
DeWitt county and gathered a remnant of about twenty-five head
of cattle, all we had left out of about two hundred head after the
close of the four years of Civil War. Father subsequently sold
these few cattle for the low price of three dollars per head.
[photo omitted — J. B. MURRAH]
In 1866 we moved to Bell county, and myself and a negro
helped my uncle drive two hundred head of horses through on the
trip. This was my first trail work. We settled on a little farm in
Bell county, where I plowed and worked the farm, but all the
time longing to get old enough to go "up the trail" with the
cowboys. When I was twenty years of age I made my first trip to
Austin, passing through San Antonio. I heard of a ranger
company up on the Sabinal River and went there to get a job, but
did not succeed in getting it, so I went on and secured
employment with an uncle where I taught Mexicans how to use
an American plow. After three months of this work I was offered
a job on the trail and lost no time in accepting it. I drove on the
trail from 1882 to 1887 and knew many of the old cowmen of
that time. I knew D. H. and J. W. Snider quite well; worked a
great deal for Capt. Dud Snider, and think he is one of the best
men living. A short time
THE TRAIL DRIVERS OF TEXAS
547
ago I read a sketch of his life, and while reading it I felt that the
half had not been told of his honesty and goodness.
I have been in the cow business ever since leaving the trail,
and it seems to me that I have known the "dogies" almost from
the beginning of time. I have ranches in Val Verde and Webb
counties, but my home is now in San Antonio. I am proud to be
the vice president of the Old Time Trail Drivers' Association, for
it is an organization of men who made history.
THE REAL COWBOY
By Bulah Rust Kirkland, Phoenix, Arizona
I wish I knew as much about cowboy life of today, as my
father knows of the early cowboy days in Texas. I firmly believe
that my love for the open range and a good cow pony is inherited.
Good cow punching is just as much an art and just as
appreciated, as it was when he was a boy. Of course there is not
the range, or the wild cattle. Just the same, a ranch in New
Mexico or Arizona could hardly be managed without good men
who thoroughly understood their business. So, the real live
cowboy still exists; here and over in Old Mexico, especially, and
of course in South America.
[photo omitted — BULAH RUST KIRKLAND]
I am sure that nothing would please our little world better than
to see the old cowboys make a proposed trip to California. Also
to re-establish the old trail. I am espe-
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THE TRAIL DRIVERS OF TEXAS
cially interested in that noted old trail; and would like to make the
trip from start to finish. For the old cowboys to make the trip to
California would be one of the grandest things of this century, it
would be history.
While I am not a man, I love to work with cattle; and have
spent a good deal of my time on the range in Southern Arizona.
There is something about the way startled cattle raise their heads
and look toward a horseback rider, that I enjoy. For me there is
real pleasure in noting their earmarks at a glance; and studying
out their brands. Ranch life is not so exciting as it was in the
early days. For one thing, when pay day comes the boys do not
shoot up the town, as of old. Though the rustler is still with us,
we handle him strictly within the law, but we do not love him any
better than they used to thirty years ago.
I believe I could walk along the streets of any town or city and
pick out the real cowboy, not by his clothes especially, but
because one can nearly always notice that he has a very open
countenance and almost innocent eyes and mouth. He is not
innocent of course; but living in the open, next to nature, the
cleaner life is stamped on his face. His vices leave no scars, or
few, because old mother nature has him with her most of the
time.
The cowboys in this part even, are rapidly passing out, for the
wire fences and short horns are coming in. While in Texas last
summer I noticed that very few kept up the old custom of good
saddles, ropes, etc. Here, a good saddle, rope, boots, chaps and a
good "cutting" horse are still the pride of any cowboy, for they
are still very much needed.
In Old Mexico and along the line in Arizona, cow punching
goes on in earnest. We still have the big round-up; the chuck
wagons, the "remuda." Camped out for nights, the boys still tell
old-time yarns and sing good old songs and play pranks on the,
tenderfoot they find in their midst.
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549
Long live the cowboy, young and old. He is the American in
my opinion.
(EDITOR'S NOTE. The above sketch was written in 1914, since which
time Mrs. Kirkland has died. She was the daughter of C. H. Rust, of San
Angelo, Texas, one of the active members of the Old Trail Drivers'
Association.)
COWBOY FROM THE PLAINS OF NEBRASKA
By V. F. Carvajal, in Floresville Chronicle-Journal
In March, 1872, I was engaged by Colin Campbell to take a
herd of cattle to Nebraska for him. I went to Lodi (recent suburb
of Floresville, Texas) and hired the hands to go with me; being
among them Miguel Cantu, ex-police of San Antonio, Masedonia
Gortari, Aurelio Carvajal, my brother, Francisco Longoria,
Melchor Ximenez, and others, whom I do not remember. We
started in the same month, March, 1872. Mr. Campbell gave me
$1,500 for general expenses, and went with us as far as Lockhart.
I had close to 1,800 head of cattle, so we went on; we crossed
the Colorado river close to Austin and went on through Round
Rock, Georgetown, Belton, Lampasas, and Fort Worth, which
was a small place then. At Fort Worth we bought sufficient
provisions to take us across the Indian Nation, which was nothing
but wilderness. We crossed Red River at Red River Station in
Montague County, and went into the Indian Nation. We met
some Indians and gave them three or four lame cattle in payment
of custom's duties which they claimed for us going through their
territory, and on to Ellsworth, Kansas, where all the cowboys
were taking their cattle. My boss, Colin Campbell, was there
waiting for me, and he ordered me to go to North Platte,
Nebraska, and he would meet me there. He bought me a compass
and a map of the state of Nebraska. In those days the western
part of Nebraska was nothing but
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THE TRAIL DRIVERS OF TEXAS
wilderness. So we started for Ellsworth without any roads; just
following the North Star by the compass and examining the map
to find out where we could get water for the cattle. In going to
North Platte I got too close to a settlement of "short horns,"
where there was a big river called Solomon River. My cattle
were suffering for water for three days. Before I got to the river,
there came about twenty "short horns" armed with
double-barreled shot guns; they stopped me from watering the
cattle—finally leaving. All at once there came a "short horn" on
a big horse to where I was. I asked him if he had a section of
land on this side of the river where we were watering the cattle.
He said yes, about half a mile below here. I told him that I would
give him $100 gold or two cows and calves if he would let us
water on his land; he told me all right, but you must not cross the
river here, that we would have to go about twenty miles west and
cross it on the government lands. So I watered the cattle and
went west and crossed the Solomon River. Then we kept
traveling due north for many days; camping one day for dinner
on the divide between the Republican and Platte Rivers. Four of
us having been out from camp, went back to camp and staked our
horses, and started to eat our dinner. All of a sudden there came
a cloud of buffaloes running toward our wagon, and three of our
horses broke their ropes and started to run ahead of the buffaloes.
There was one horse left in camp, so I got on him and started in
pursuit of my horses that were ahead of the buffaloes. From the
camp to where I overtook the buffaloes and horses there was a
large city of prairie dogs and I had considerable trouble keeping
my horse away from the holes. When I overtook the horses I
tried to catch them but my horse was almost exhausted; so I
continued to run even with the horses until my horse could get
sufficient breath to maintain his gait. I kept about one hundred
yards from the horses and buffaloes, both still running. Finally I
came to a
THE TRAIL DRIVERS OF TEXAS
551
nice level valley and I said to myself, if I do not catch the horses
now, right here, I am going to let them go. So I put spurs to my
horse and it seemed to me that he was flying. The leading horse
had a piece of rope around his neck and I gained on him and
caught him, holding to the rope on his neck. The other horses
following as soon as I caught him. After having put my rope on
him I started hack in the direction of the camp. I had gone about
a mile when I met one of my hands, coming to my rescue. So it
made me feel happy, because I was afraid I never would find my
way back, as it was getting late in the day, almost dark, and we
were some fifteen miles from camp. As we were going back we
met about 1,000 buffaloes coming over a ridge toward us. I
asked my companion if he wanted to see my horse get on top of
those buffaloes, and he answered, yes. So I turned my horse after
the buffaloes and I scattered them in all directions. Finally we
got into camp all right without getting lost in the wilderness.
Next day we continued our journey toward North Platte,
Nebraska, our destination, where we found our boss, Colin
Campbell, waiting for us, after being on the trail for six months.
There we delivered the cattle to the parties to whom he had
sold them.
This story is not eloquent; but it is genuine, and perhaps will
never be repeated again.
ECHOES OF THE 1916 CONVENTION
The following was published in a Houston paper at the time of
the convention of the Old Time Trail Drivers in that City in 1916:
"Y' know," observed the little old man with the thin, brown
fingers, "y' know, when the boys went into Mexico befo', I drove
one of the wagons. That was "way back in '46.
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"Back in '48 and '49 I used to know 'bout every one along the
Colorado and Brazos rivers."
C. P. Vance, who admits to 89 years and who is “down from
Williamson County" to attend the Stock Raisers' Convention, was
the speaker. Mr. Vance glanced over the gray-haired youngsters
assembled and remarked:
"These boys took their herds no'th. When I was a young
fellow we used to drive our herds out to New O’leans."
The old man smiled. It was a smile of good will toward
children whose memories only go back to these latter 50 years of
trail driving. Mr. Vance sat in the front row at the meeting of the
Old Trail Drivers yesterday afternoon at the banquet hall of the
City Auditorium.
"Hello, there, boy."
"Well, well. I ain't seen you since that day you swum them
four herds across Red River."
"Back in '77, wasn't it?"
"Where you been all this time?"
"Thirty-one years up in Wyoming. Livin' at Sundance,
no'theast corner. Wintered at Abilene. Back in Texas for good."
It was the greeting of W. D. Driscoll, late of Sundance, as
aforestated and G. W. Mills of Lockhart, Texas.
Then came a series of rapid-fire questions about Ab and Tobe
and Tennessee and Red and Eli.
"Remember the fellow that tried to swim the Red River that
day to get away from the sheriff? He was under arrest."
"Yes, I pulled him out."
"And wasn't that sheriff some mad when he got safe on the
Oklahoma side?"
"Wonder what happened to him?"
"Oh, he died some years ago."
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553
"Know whar any of the Day boys are ? They lived up Hash
Knife way."
"Tony's the only one left. He's out in California somewhere.”
"Know what year the Chisholm trail was blazed?"
"Must a been about in '68 or '69. I went up with a herd in '70
and the blazes were still bright on the trees then all through the
Oklahoma timber country.”
"Now this Chisholm trail, where it started and where it ended
and when it was blazed, we're not plum sure of it an' I'd like to
find someone that is," said George W. Saunders, presiding.
"Put it up to Eli Baggett, over in San Angelo, he'll know."
So, by vote of the house it was decided that Mr. Baggett of
San Angelo should be asked to fix the Chisholm trail.
"I tell you John Blocker was the outdrivin'est man with a herd
I ever did see," observed one with a gray moustache.
"Up in the territory an Irishman told me sumthin' one day that
pictured him just right."
"What was it?"
"Said the only kick he had driving with a Blocker outfit was
that he had to eat two suppers every night!"
"Two suppers?"
"Yes, one after dark at night and the second befo' sunup next
mo'nin'."
And two old trail drivers' sides shook with laughter.
"I've been figgerin' on writin' some recollections of my trail
driving days," confided an old man to his friend,
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THE TRAIL DRIVERS OF TEXAS
C. P. Vance, who drove a wagon when the soldiers went into
Mexico "the first time, way back in '46."
"But these modern maps ain't right. I can't find Brown's Hole,
an' I can't find Bridger Pass, nor Spear Fish, nor Bear River.
Why, these new maps ain't got the old streams. They've got
railroads an' railroads all over 'em—but the rivers we used to
cross ain't there.
"It just mixes me all up an' I can't tell where I am. If I could
only get one of these old maps."
"Write to the headquarters of the United States. They'll send
you an old map."
"Sure, I will, I never thought of that."
[photo omitted — W. H. ADAMS, New Braunfels, Tex.]