Charles A. Siringo

by Fifteen Years on the Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony A Texas Cowboy or

  Johnson gave a savage glance at me as much as to say: d—m you, you have been trying to work us, have you? I kept my hand near old colts “45” for I expected, from his nervous actions, for him to make a break of some kind. He finally got up and walked out without saying a word. This man who had so suddenly bursted our friendship was a friend of Frank Stuart’s and had met me in Las Vegas, with his chum, Stuart.

  I concluded it wouldn’t be healthy for me to remain there till after dark, nor to undertake the trip to Tombstone, for I had manifested such an interest in the Slaughter herd, etc., that they might follow me up, on hearing that I had left town. So I wrote a letter to Mr. Moore, telling him of the whole circumstances, and asking him if I had better take my men and follow the herd to the jumping-off place or not? I then struck back to White Oaks over the same route I had come.

  That night I stopped at Shedd’s ranch; and so did Cohglin, he being on his way back to Tulerosa.

  The next day I rode the entire sixty miles, across the “white sands,” and landed in Tulerosa about a half hour behind Cohglin and his fast steppers. I was tired though, and swore off ever riding another mule on a long trip. I had figured on being in mountains all the time, where I would have lots of climbing to do, is why I rode the mule instead of a horse.

  The next morning I made up my mind that I would take a new route to the “Oaks” by going around the mountains through Mr. Cohglin’s range which was on Three Rivers, twenty odd miles north. So before starting I inquired of Cohglin’s clerk as to the best route.

  I stopped at the Cohglin ranch that night and was treated like a white head by Mr. Nesbeth and wife who took care of the ranch, that is, done the cooking, gardening, milking, etc. The herders, or cowboys, were all mexicans, with the exception of Bill Gentry, the boss, who was away at the time.

  While getting ready to start for White Oaks next morning one of the eight or ten, mexicans, who were sitting on the fence sunning themselves, came to me, and told me of a near cut to the “Oaks,” by taking an old Indian trail over the White Mountains, and advised me to take that route as I could save at least twenty miles, it being forty around by the road.

  Mr. Nesbeth spoke up and said it would be better for me to travel on the road, even if it was further, as I might experience some difficulty in finding the old Indian trail.

  The “Greaser” then offered me his service, saying that he would go and put me on the trail so that it would be impossible for me to miss my way. I agreed, so he mounted a pony and we rode east up a rough canyon.

  A ride of about five miles brought us to the almost obliterated trail. It lead up an awful brushy and rocky canyon towards the snowy crags of the White Mountain range.

  About an hour after bidding the “Greaser” adieu, I came to where the trail made a short curve to the left, but I could tell from the lay of the ground that, by keeping straight ahead, I would strike it again. So I left it, and luckily for me that I did, for there was some one laying for me not far from there.

  I hadn’t gone but a rod or two when bang! bang! bang! went three shots in quick succession, not over fifty yards to the left; and at the same time my mule gave a lunge forward, on the ice-covered stones, and fell broad-side, throwing me over a precipice about eight feet to the bottom. My winchester and pistol both were hanging to the saddlehorn, but I managed to grab and pull the latter out of the scabbard as I went off, and took it with me.

  The first thing I done on striking bottom was to hunt a hole. I found a nice little nook between two boulders and lay there with cocked pistol, expecting every second to see three Indians or “Greasers” peep over the ledge on the hunt for a dead “Gringo” —as the mexicans call an American.

  After waiting a few minutes I became impatient and crawled on top of a small knoll and, on looking in the direction the shooting had come from, I got a faint glimpse of what I took to be two half-stooped human forms retreating, through the pinyon brush, at a lively gait. Suffice it to say I found my mule standing in a grove of trees, with his front feet fastened in the bridle-reins, about two hundred yards from where he fell. And between his forelegs, on the ground was a small pool of sparkling red blood, which had dripped from a slight bullet wound in his breast.

  On examination I found that one bullet had cut a groove in the hind tree of my saddle, and another had plowed through a pair of blankets tied behind the saddle. I arrived in the Oaks, on my almost broken-down mule about dark that night, after an absence of nearly two weeks.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  Lost on the Staked Plains.

  ABOUT A WEEK after my return to White Oaks, I received a letter from Mr. Moore stating that I need not go to Arizona to look after the Slaughter herd as he had hired a United States Deputy Marshal by the name of John W. Poe,1 now Sheriff of Lincoln County, New Mexico, to go around by rail and tend to the matter. But when Poe arrived there the herd had been sold and driven to Old Mexico, so that we never knew whether there were any Panhandle cattle in it or not, except what I learned from the mexican, which appeared to me very good evidence, that there were.

  On the tenth day of March, while taking it easy waiting for the first of April to arrive so that we could round up the Cohglin range according to agreement, I received a confidential letter from Mr. Geo. Nesbeth of the Cohglin ranch, giving me a broad hint that Mr. Cohglin was getting rid of our cattle as fast as possible, before the first of April should arrive.

  The letter arrived in the evening and next morning I took “Big foot” along and struck out for “Stanton”—after giving Chambers and Emory orders to load up the wagon with grub and corn, and follow.

  “Big-foot” and I arrived in the Post about three o’clock in the afternoon and went through the Cohglin slaughter pens, finding several freshly butchered “L. X.” hides, which went to show that I had been duped, and that the hint from Nesbeth was true. We then rode down the “Bonetta” River nine miles to Lincoln, to go through the hides there and to look for a herd we expected the old fellow had hidden out somewhere along the river.

  We stopped in “Stanton” that night and next morning struck out on the White Oaks road to meet the wagon and turn it towards Three Rivers.

  We met the outfit at the mouth of Nogal canyon and camped for dinner.

  It was sixty miles around by the road to Cohglin’s ranch, the route the wagon would have to go and about twenty-five or thirty on a straight line over the White Mountains.

  After dinner “Big-foot” and I struck out over the mountains, while Emory and Chambers went around by the road to pilot the cook.

  About twelve o’clock that night, after a very hard ride over one of the roughest strips of snow covered countries a man ever saw, we arrived at the Cohglin ranch.

  We found the corral full of cattle, but, being very dark, couldn’t tell whose they were.

  Mr. and Mrs. Nesbeth got up out of bed and gave us a cold supper; and he also gave us a few pointers in regard to his employer’s doings, etc. He informed me that Bill Gentry, the boss, had just began, that day, gathering the remaining Panhandle cattle, that might still be left on the range, to take to the “Stanton” slaughter pens. Hence those cattle in the corral.

  After breakfast Gentry and his seven “Greasers” turned the herd out of the corral with the intention of keeping right on with his work. There was only five head of “L. X.’s,” all large steers, in the bunch and I told Gentry that I would have to take charge of those and also gather up the rest that were on his range. He couldn’t agree to that, he said, for his orders from Cohglin were, not to give up any of the Panhandle cattle, etc. I told him that I didn’t care what his orders were, as I was bound to have the cattle.

  Just about the time we were arguing the case the rest of my outfit hove in sight; they had been traveling all night.

  After camping the wagon we all went out to the herd, which the mexicans were guarding and proceeded to cutting our five head out. Gentry tried to get me to wait until he could send for Cohglin, he having already dispatched a me
xican to Tulerosa after him, but I wouldn’t reason the matter at all, as I was mad about the way I had been served.

  We went right to work after cutting out the five head, rounding up the whole range in search of more, but after three days hard work we only succeeded in finding three head more. But we left there with nine head, the ninth one being one of Cohglin’s own steers which we butchered in the Oaks on our arrival back there, for the benefit of our many friends whom had been depending on us all winter for their fresh beef. Thus I had the satisfaction of getting even with the old fellow to the extent of one steer and a fat hog which we had butchered and stowed away in the wagon the night before leaving.

  The mexican that Gentry sent to Tulerosa with the dispatch had to go on down to Las Cruces, on the Rio Grande, Cohglin having started down there the day before; hence we not having the old fellow to contend with.

  After looking over the “Carezo” range, which was owned by Catron and Waltz2 and several small mexican ranges, we pulled into White Oaks with lots of experience but very few cattle.

  On arriving in the “Oaks” I wrote to Mr. Moore telling him all about the way in which Cohglin had taken advantage of me, etc. Also advised him to have the old fellow prosecuted as I had sufficient evidence to send him to the “Pen.”

  Mr. Moore on getting my letter, sent John Poe, the United States Deputy Marshal that he had sent to Tombstone, Arizona, over to have Cohglin arrested and put through the mill.

  On leaving the “Oaks” for good, I bought a wagon load of corn, chuck, etc. for which I gave orders on the “L. X.” company, not having any money left. The merchants had by this time, become acquainted with me, so that my name to an order was just the same as cash to them.

  From the “Oaks” I pulled due east, around the “Capitan” mountains to Roswell on the Pecos River. I overhauled scores of little mexican ranches scattered through the mountains on my route, but failed to find any of our stock. At Roswell though we found two large steers which swelled our little herd to ten head.

  From Roswell we went to John Chisholm’s3 ranch on the head of South Spring River; and got there just in time as he was rigging up his outfit for spring work. They were going to start down the Reo Pecos to the Texas line, next day, to begin work and I concluded we had better work with them, in search of Panhandle cattle which might have drifted across the Plains.

  I took my outfit back to Roswell, five miles, where I made arrangements with Capt. J. C. Lea,4 who kept a store, to board one of my men whom I wanted to leave there to take care of the ten head of steers until my return, not caring to drive them two hundred miles down the river and then back again.

  Not having grub enough to last on the trip I bought a supply from the accommodating Capt. Lea, who took my note for pay. He also sold me two horses on the same terms.

  We were absent two weeks on this trip, but failed to find any of our cattle. We came back with the satisfaction though of knowing that there wasn’t any in that part of the world.

  On our arrival back to Roswell we learned of the “Kid‘s” escape from Lincoln after having killed his two guards. That night Lon Chambers wore a different hat; he had swapped his star-spangled mexican sombraro off to one of Chisholm’s men. This hat had been presented to Tom O’Phalliard by the “Kid,” hence Chambers not wanting it in his possession for fear he might run across the “Kid.” Chambers of course denied the above, saying that he never thought of such a thing, but traded it off just because it, being so heavy, made his head ache. But that was too thin we thought under the circumstances. Any of us would have done the same though, no doubt, knowing that the “Kid” had sworn vengeance against all of O’Phalliard’s “murderers” as he termed them.

  We found Emory and the ten steers doing finely. Tom hated to see us back for he was having such a soft time. All he had to do was turn the steers out of the corral, mornings, and then round-up and pen them at night again.

  After drawing on the whole-souled Capt. Lea again for more grub, etc., we pulled up the Reo Pecos—looking through all the cattle on our route—to Ft. Sumner, a distance of one hundred miles.

  We laid over in Sumner two days and went to a mexican fandango both nights, at the Maxwell mansion in which the “Kid” was killed shortly afterwards. The “Kid” was in the building while the dance was going on but we didn’t know it at the time. The way I found it out, I had escorted a young woman, after the dance, one night, to her room, which was in the same building as the dance, and she bid me good night without asking me in. I thought it strange but never said anything. That fall when I came back there she explained matters, by saying that the “Kid” was in her room at the time, reading. I had noticed that she stood outside of the door until I had turned the corner out of sight. She also explained that: The “Kid” had the door locked and she had to give a private rap to get him to open it.

  From Ft. Sumner we pulled due east on the Los Potales road, on our way to scour out the “Sand Hills” according to Moore’s instruction in one of his letters to me at White Oaks. Before leaving the Post, the last settlement or store that we would come to before reaching the Canadian River, I sold one of the horses bought from Capt. Lea, for thirty-five dollars and laid in a small supply of grub with the money. Not being acquainted there my credit wasn’t good, hence having to sell the horse.

  Two days out from Ft. Sumner we came to the little rock house, at Stinking Springs, where the “Kid” and his companions held out so long without fire, food or water. Chambers and Emory of course had to explain and point out every place of interest, to “Big-foot Wallace,” the mexican cook, Frank, or Francisco, and myself.

  The second day after leaving Stinking Springs, we came to the “Kid’s” noted “Castle” at Los Potales, on the western edge of the great “Llano Estacado.”

  Los Potales is a large alkali Lake, the water of which is unfit for man or beast. But on the north side of the lake is two nice, cool springs which gurgle forth from a bed of rock, near the foot of “Kidv’s” Castle—a small cave in the cliff. In front of the cave is a stone corral about fifty feet square; and above the cave on the level plain is several hitching posts. Outside of those things mentioned there is nothing but a level prairie just as far as the eye can reach.

  We found about one hundred head of cattle, mostly from the Canadian River, but a few from as far north as Denver Col., at “Potales,” which improved the appearance of our little herd considerably.

  From there we went to the Coyote lake, twelve miles further east, where we found about fifty head more cattle, a mixed lot like the first. They were almost as wild as deer.

  We then pulled into the Sand Hills, which extend over a scope of country from ten to fifty miles wide, and two hundred long—that is, two hundred miles north and south.

  After about ten days hard work we came out onto the Plains again, our herd having increased to about twenty-five hundred head. We were undoubtedly a worn-out crowd—horses and all. To do that amount of work we should have had at least five more men, and three or four more horses apiece. We only had one horse apiece, besides one extra, and the four work mules, which we had to press into double duty by using them to guard the cattle at night.

  The next day about noon, after getting out of the Sand Hills, we came to a buffalo-hunter’s camp on the head of Yellow-house canyon, a tributary to the Brazos River. There was one man in camp, the other one being away on a hunt. Our cattle being nearly dead for water, there being none there, with the exception of a small spring, just large enough to allow one animal to drink at a time, I asked the hunter to give me directions to the nearest water from there, on our route.

  Pointing to a cluster of sand hills about fifteen miles to the east, he said: “You will find Running Water, the head of Canyon Blanco, just eight miles east of those sand hills.” As we learned, after it was too late, he should have said; eight miles north of the sand hills, instead of east. We were all acquainted with the country from Running Water north, but had never been south of it; hence us ha
ving to depend on the “locoed” buffalo-hunter’s directions.

  We camped for the night within a few miles of the sand hills. The cattle were restless all night, on account of being thirsty, which caused us all to lose sleep and rest.

  The next morning, after eating a hasty breakfast, we let the moaning herd string out towards the big red sun which was just making its appearance.

  Giving the boys orders to keep headed east, and telling the cook to follow behind the herd with his wagon, I struck out ahead on my tired and weak pony, Croppy, to find the water, which was “so near, and yet so far.”

  I rode about fifteen miles, and still no water. I then dismounted to wait for the herd to come in sight, but changed my notion and galloped on five miles further, thinking maybe the hunter might have meant eighteen miles instead of eight. The five miles was reached and still nothing but a dry, level plain, with no indications of water ahead, as far as I could see.

  Thinking maybe I had bore too far to the south, I then rode five or six miles to the north, but with the same result. I then, after letting Croppy blow awhile started back towards the herd at a slow gait.

  Finally a cloud of dust appeared, and shortly after, the herd hove in sight. The poor cattle were coming in a trot, their tongues hanging out a foot.

  The way the boys cursed and abused that poor old hunter, at a distance, was a sin, after I had told them of our luck. Chambers wanted to go right back and eat the poor “locoed” human up alive without salt or pepper. But I pacified him by saying that maybe he had made a mistake of a few miles, meant eighty instead of eight. At any rate we continued right on, east.

  About noon our ten-gallon keg run dry, and then we began to feel ticklish, scared, or whatever you wish to call it. But about three o’clock, we spied a bunch of mustangs off to the right, about five miles, and on galloping over to where they had been, before seeing me, I found a small pool of muddy rain water, which they had been wallowing in.