by Fifteen Years on the Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony A Texas Cowboy or
After letting Croppy fill up, and eating a drink of the muddy stuff myself, I struck back to let the other boys come on and fill up; also sent the cook to fill the keg, and to water his mules. I kept the herd, they being anxious to travel in search of water, pointed east, by myself, while the rest of the boys were absent.
We traveled till midnight and then pitched camp to get something to eat. After getting supper cooked, it was almost an impossibility to find time to eat it, as the herd kept milling and trotting around like so many crazy animals.
We remained there all night, and next morning used the last drop of water to make coffee. We found the keg, after draining it, to be about half full of solid mud.
I concluded that we had gone far enough east, so, that morning changed our course to north.
About eleven o’clock, while the hot June sun was coming down with vengeance, we struck a large lake about a mile wide. If ever a crowd was happy it was us. The poor cattle drank till some of them fell down and was unable to move.
We laid there resting up until the next day after dinner. Our grub had given out by this time, therefore we had nothing to eat but coffee and beef “straight.”
When we left the lake our course was due north.
About noon the next day we came to the head of Canyon Blanco, twelve miles below Running Water, consequently we turned west, and traveled twelve miles up the dry canyon before pitching camp.
From there we turned due north again and traveled two days before striking any more water.
On arriving at Terra Blanco, fifty miles south of the Canadian river we struck Mr. Summerfield, and his outfit, from whom we borrowed grub enough to last us home. There were also two “L. X.” boys in the Summerfield camp, and they, having five good horses apiece, divided with us. Our ponies were just about completely peetered out.
We landed at the “L. X.” ranch on the 22nd day of June, with the herd of twenty-five hundred head of cattle, after having been absent just seven months, to a day.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A trip down the Reo Pecos.
ON MY RETURN I found that the “L. X.” ranch had changed bosses. Moore had quit and bought a ranch of his own, while John Hollicott, one of the old hands had been put in his place. Hence in the future I had to be governed by Mr. Hollicott’s orders—that is while working around the ranch. One of the firm, Erskine Clement, had charge of outside matters, now, since Moore had left.
I put in the summer running a branding outfit, loafing around Tascosa, working up a cattle stealing case, etc., until the middle of October, when Clement received a letter from John Poe, who was prosecuting Cohglin, stating for Chambers and I to come over to Lincoln as witnesses in the Cohglin case. The time set for us to be there, was on the 7th day of November, therefore we had no time to lose, it being five hundred miles over there, by the shortest route.
Hollicott and Clement talked the matter over and concluded that I had better not come back until the next spring—“just put in the winter drifting over the country, wherever you can do the most good,” was my orders.
Chambers and I struck out from Tascosa on the 22nd of October. He had only one horse, while I had two of the best animals on the ranch, Croppy and Buckshot.
We traveled up the river to Liberty, New Mexico, and from there cut across the Staked Plains to Ft. Sumner, on the Reo Pecos.
The distance from “Summer” to the “Oaks” was about one hundred miles on a bee line across the country, while it was one hundred and fifty around by the road. We chose the former route, although we were told that there wasn’t any water until reaching the Capitan mountains within thirty miles of the “Oaks.” We both wished though, that we had followed the road, for, our progress being very slow on account of the loose dirt which would give away under a horse, allowing him to sink almost to his knees, we came very near perishing from thirst; and so did our poor horses.
We landed in White Oaks about noon of the fourth day out from Ft. Sumner; and had been on the road twelve days from Tascosa. We were welcomed back to the “Oaks” by all of our old acquaintances, especially those whom we had furnished with stolen beef all winter.
As we had five days to loaf in, before court set in, we went to work prospecting for gold, every body in the town being at fever heat over recent rich strikes.
The first day was spent in climbing to the top of Baxter mountain, where most of the rich mines were located, and back. The only thing we found of interest was a lot of genuine oyster shells imbedded in a large rock on the extreme top of the mountain. Of course this brought up a discussion as to how they came there. Chambers contended that they grew there during the flood, and I argued that they were there before God made the earth. We both finally got mad, each one, over the other’s weak argument, and began to slide down hill towards town, which looked something like a checker-board from where we were.
The next day we tied the pick and shovel behind our saddles and struck out on horseback to prospect in the valleys. At last we struck it, a fine gold bearing lead. It cropped out of the ground about a foot. I told Chambers to go to work and dig the prospect-hole, while I wrote out the location notices.
Finally an old miner by the name of Stone came to us. I was sitting under the shade of a pinyon tree writing, while Chambers was sweating like a “Nigger at election.” “What are you fellows trying to do?” spoke up Mr. Stone, after grinning a few moments. We told him. He then said: “Why neither one of you fellows has got as much sense as a last year’s bird’s nest; that’s nothing but a very common ledge of rock.” We took him at his word and went back to town.
That night Mr. Stone gave us one of his mines, if we would sink a twenty foot shaft on it. We done so; that is, Chambers did, while I carried water, and rode into town every day at noon to bring him out his dinner.
Finally our time was out and we had to pull for Lincoln, a distance of thirty-five miles. Poe had written to me to come in after night, and on the sly, as he wanted to make Cohglin believe that we wouldn’t be there to appear against him, so he would let his trial come off, instead of taking a change of venue. I left Croppy in a feed stable to be taken care of until my return.
Arriving in Lincoln, Poe sent us down the Reo Bonetta, twelve miles, to stop with a Mr. Cline, with whom he had made arrangements, until sent for.
Mr. Cline was a Dutchman who had married a mexican wife and had a house full of little half-breeds around him.
Time passed off very slowly to Chambers and I, although our host tried to amuse us by telling his hairbreadth escapes from wild indians and grizzly-bears.
We were indeed glad when Mr. Poe rode up, after we had been at the Cline ranch twelve days, and told us that we were free. Cohglin had “smelled a mice” and taken a change of venue to Mesilla, in Dona Anna County.
Before leaving Lincoln I had to sign a five hundred dollar bond for my appearance in Mesilla, as a witness against Cohglin, on the first Monday in April, 1882, which was the following spring. Mr. Chambers being sworn and not knowing anything of importance, was allowed to return home. We both received ninety dollars apiece, for mileage and witness fees.
Returning to White Oaks, Chambers remained there a week, making love to his mexican widow, and then struck for the “L. X.” ranch, by way of Anton Chico, and down the Canadian River. The route he and I had come was too far between ranches for him, traveling alone.
I remained in the “Oaks” about a week after my “pard” had left, waiting for some more money which I had written for.
From the “Oaks” I went to Roswell on the Reo Pecos, a distance of one hundred and twenty-five miles, by the route I took. There I struck company, a jovial old soul by the name of “Ash” Upson,1 who was just starting to the Texas Pacific Railroad, two hundred miles down the river, to meet Pat. Garrett, who had written to come there after him, in a buggy. Ash was making his home at Garrett’s ranch, a few miles from Roswell.
We laid over Christmas day at the mouth of Seven Rivers and helped kind Mrs. Jones, o
ne of Mr. Upson’s old-time friends, get away with a nice turkey dinner.
While sitting around our camp-fire at nights “Old” Ash would amuse me by relating circumstances connected with the “bloody Lincoln County war.” He also gave me a full sketch of “Billy the Kid’s” life, a subject which I am going to devote the next chapter to, as I imagine it will be interesting reading to some.
We arrived at Pecos Station, on the T. P. R. R., one afternoon about three o’clock. And it being a terribly lonesome place, we, after leaving our horses and things in care of an old wolf hunter who promised to see that the horses were well fed, boarded the west bound passenger train for Toyah,2 a distance of twenty-two miles.
We put up at the Alverado House, in Toyah. It was kept by a man named Newell, who had a pretty little fifteen-year old daughter, whose sparkling eyes were too much for me; to use a western phrase, she broke me all up on the first round.
After supper Ash went out to take in the town, while I remained in the office exchanging glances with Miss Bulah.
It was New Year’s eve and Mr. and Mrs. Newell were making preparations for a ball to be given New Year’s night.
Toyah was then one of those terrible wicked infant towns, it being only a few months old and contained over a dozen saloons and gambling halls.
About midnight Ash got through taking in the town and came back to the hotel. He was three sheets in the wind, but swore he hadn’t drank anything but “Tom and Jerry.”
The next morning the town was full of railroaders, they having come in to spend New Years. A grand shooting match for turkeys was advertised to come off at ten o‘clock, and everybody, railroaders and all, were cleaning up their pistols, when Ash and I got up, we having slept till about nine o’clock.
Miss Bulah made a remark, in my presence, that she wished someone would win a fat turkey and give it to her. Now was my time to make a “mash,” so I assured her that I would bring in a dozen or two and lay them at her feet.
When the shooting commenced I was on hand and secured the ticket which was marked number eleven. The tickets were sold at twenty-five cents apiece, and if you killed the bird, you were entitled to a free shot until you missed.
Mr. Miller, the Justice, was running the business for what money there was in it. He had sent to Dallas, six hundred miles east, after the turkeys, which had cost him three dollars apiece. Hence he had to regulate the distance and everything so that there would be considerable missing done.
Everything being ready, he placed the turkey in an iron box, with nothing but its head visible and then set the box thirty-five yards from the line. The shooting to be done with pistols “off hand.”
Ten shots were fired and still Mr. turkey was casting shy glances towards the large crowd of several hundred men. Mr. Miller wore a pleasant smile, when he shouted number eleven.
I stepped forward trembling like an aspen leaf, for fear I would miss and thereby fail to win Miss Bulah’s admiration. I was afraid, should the bullet miss its mark, that the few dozen birds would be all killed before my time would come around again, there being so many men waiting for a shot. At last I cut loose and off went the turkey’s head, also Mr. Miller’s happy smile. You see he lacked “two bits” of getting cost for the bird.
Another one was put up, and off went his head. This was too much for Mr. Miller, two birds already gone and only two dollars and “six bits” in the pot. He finally after humming and hawing awhile, said:
“Gentlemen, I don’t like to weaken this early in the game, but you all know I have got a large family to support and consequently I will have to rule this young man out of the ring. He’s too slick with a pistol to have around a game of this kind anyway.”
I hated to quit of course, but it was best, for I might have missed the very next time, and as it was Bulah would think that I would have carried out my promise if I had been allowed to keep on.
After that, during my stay on the T. P. R. R., I was called the “Turkey shooter.” Often while riding near the railroad track, maybe four or five hundred miles from Toyah, some one would hail me from a passing train by that name; and whenever I would ride into a town there was sure to be some fellow on hand to point me out. They all knew me so well by my horse, Croppy, he being milk white and both ears being off close up to his head. He was indeed a notable animal, as well as a long, keen, good one.
That night nearly everybody got drunk, old Ash excepted of course, as he was already full. The ball was a grand success. The dancers on the womens’ side, were all married ladies, with the exception of Miss Bulah and a Miss Lee; and those on the opposite side were a terribly mixed mob, but mostly gamblers, horse thieves and cow boys. The railroaders didn’t take any stock in the ball. Maybe it was because there were so many on the floor wearing six-shooters and bowie knives around their waists.
It was indeed a grand sight next morning looking at black eyes and swollen heads. Every Chinaman, there being a dozen or two living in town, skipped for parts unknown that night. There was too many loose bullets flying through the air to suit them; and it is said that the “Pig-tails” have shunned Toyah ever since that New Year’s night.
A few days after New Years a telegram came to Ash, from Garrett who had arrived at Pecos Station stating: “Come on the first train as I am in a hurry to get home.” Ash got me to answer it as he, having drank too much Tom and Jerry, was unable to walk to the Telegraph office. I sent the following message: “Can’t leave here; owe every man in town.”
In a few minutes another one came, an answer to the one just sent, stating: “If you don’t come down on the morning train I will strike out and leave you.”
This one raised Ash’s spunk, so he told me to write down just what he told me, and then give it to the operator. I done as requested, which ran thus: “Go to, hic, h—l, d—you!”
The next evening, Garrett arrived on the west bound passenger, and next morning, after paying a lot of saloon bills, etc., took old Ash back with him.
I had, the day after New Year’s, went down to the Pecos and brought my ponies up to Toyah, therefore I took a little spin out into the country to pass off the time, every now and then, or at least to look through a few herds of cattle in that vicinity.
After spending about two weeks around Toyah, I struck out for Colorado City, two hundred miles east. Of course I hated to part with Miss Bulah; and so did Mr. Newell hate to part with me, for he was losing a good cash boarder.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A true sketch of “Billy the Kid’s” life.
THE CUT on opposite page was taken from a photograph and represents the “Kid” as he appeared before the artist after having just returned from a long, tiresome raid; and the following sketch of his short but eventful life was gleaned from himself, Ash Upson and others. The circumstance connected with his death I got from the lips of John W. Poe, who was with Garrett when he fired the fatal shot.
Billy Bonney, alias the “Kid” was born in New York City, November the 23rd, 1859; and at the age of ten he, in company with his mother and stepfather, Antrim, landed in the Territory of New Mexico.
Mr. Antrim, shortly after his arrival in the Territory, opened up a restaurant in Santa Fe, the Capitol, and one of his boarders was the jovial old Ash Upson, my informant, who was then interested in a newspaper at that place.
Often when Ash was too busily engaged about his office to go to dinner, Mrs. Antrim would send it by her little merry-eyed boy, Billy, who was the pride of her life.
Finally Ash sold out and moved to Silver City, which was then booming on account of its rich mines. And it wasn’t long until Mr. Antrim followed and opened up another eating house there, with Ash as a boarder again. Thus it will be seen that my informant was just the same as one of the family for quite a while.
The “Kid’s” first man,1 as told to me by himself, was a negro soldier in Ft. Union, whom he shot in self-defence.
His next killing was a young blacksmith in Silver City whom he killed in a personal encoun
ter, but not according to law, hence it was this scrape that first caused him to become an outcast; driven from pillar to post, out of reach of a kind mother’s influence.
It was a cold stormy night when he, after kissing his mother’s pale cheeks for the last time on this earth, rode out into the darkness, headed west for the wilds of Arizona, where he soon became an adept at cards and horse stealing.
He finally landed in the City of Chihuahua, Old Mexico, with a pocket full of Arizona gold. Here he led a gay life until one night when a bullet from his trusty revolver sent a rich mexican monte-dealer to his long and happy home.
The next we hear of him is in the friendly land of Texas, where he remained in retirement until the spring of 1876, when he drifted across the lonely Gandalupe mountains into Lincoln County, New Mexico, then the outlaw’s Paradise.
At Lincoln, the county seat, he hired out as a cow boy to a young Englishman by the name of Tunstall.
In the spring of ’78 Mr. Tunstall was killed by a mob, headed by a fellow named Morton, from the Reo Pecos.
The “Kid” hearing of his employer’s foul murder, rode into Lincoln2 from the Tunstall ranch to learn the full particulars concerning the killing. He and the young Englishman were warm friends and before leaving the ranch he swore vengeance against every one of the murderers.
Arriving in the mexican Plaza of Lincoln the “Kid” learned that Morton and crowd had pulled back to the Reo Pecos. So he joined a crowd composed of the following named parties: R. M. Bruer, J. G. Skurlock, Charlie Bowder, Henry Brown, Frank McNab, Fred Wayt, Sam Smith, Jim French, McClosky and Johnny Middleton, and started in pursuit. This was just the beginning of the “bloody Lincoln County war” which you have all read so much about. But it is said that the “Kid” killed every man connected with the murder of his friend before the war ended.