by Fifteen Years on the Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony A Texas Cowboy or
We stopped at San Augustine the first night out from “Cruces,” and from there we struck south-east across the white sands for the mouth of Dog canyon—the noted rendezvous of old Victoria and his band of blood-thirsty Apache’s.
I had heard so much about this beautiful Dog canyon that I concluded to see it before going home, so that if it proved to be as represented I could secure it for a cattle ranch.
It was a ticklish job going there by ourselves, as a telegram was received in Las Cruces, the morning we left, that a band of Apache’s had crossed the Rio Grande at Colorow, killing three men there, and were headed toward Dog canyon. But I had faith in Croppy and Buckshot, they being well rested and hog fat, carrying us out of danger should we come in contact with them.
We arrived at the noted canyon after being away from water nearly two days. It was a lovely place, at the foot of Gandalupe mountains.
After leaving there we went through the following towns: La Luz, Tulerosa, South Fork and Ft. Stanton.
At the last named place Charlie Wall left me, and I continued on alone.
I remained in White Oaks a few days, looking over my town property, I having bought some lots and built cabins thereon, and examining the “Old Panhandle Tiger” gold mine, the one Stone, Chambers and I owned. I had some of the rock assayed and it run twelve dollars in gold to the ton, besides a few ounces in silver and about two million dollars worth of hopes.
From White Oaks I went through Anton Chico, San Lorenzo, Liberty and Tascosa, and arrived at the “L. X.” ranch after an absence of nearly eight months, and about a three thousand mile ride.
CHAPTER XXX.
A sudden leap from Cow Boy to Merchant.
ABOUT THE FIRST OF JULY, shortly after my return, Hollicott sent me to Kansas with a herd of eight hundred fat steers. My outfit consisted of a cook, chuck wagon, five riders, and six horses to the rider.
We arrived in Caldwell, Kansas, near the northern line of the Indian Territory, about September the first.
After putting the cattle aboard of the cars, and giving them a send-off towards Chicago, we all proceeded to take in the “Queen City of the Border,” as Caldwell is called. I immediately fell in love with the town, also with a couple of young ladies, and therefore concluded to locate. I bought some lots and contracted a house built, with a view of going after mother.
I then struck out with my outfit to attend the fall round-ups in the vicinity of Camp Supply, Indian Territory. Returning to Caldwell the latter part of November, I boarded a train for Southern Texas, after mother, by way of Saint Louis to visit my sister whom I hadn’t seen for thirteen long years.
I arrived in Saint Louis one evening—just in time to let an old flop-eared Jew take me in to the extent of a hundred dollars for a lot of snide jewelry and a Jim-Crow suit of clothes.
Not caring to hunt sister until morning I went to the Planter’s House to put up for the night, and to note the change of twelve years.
After taking a bath and getting into my new rigging, I took a straight shoot for the office to make inquiries about the old boys. I found a long-legged youth behind the counter who, on asking how many of the old hands of twelve years ago were still there, pointed out Jimmy Byron, the kid I had the fight with, behind the cigar and news stand, across the hall. He was very busy at the time dishing out cigars, etc. to the scores of old fat roosters and lean dudes who were hurrying out after having eaten their supper.
The rush was finally over and then I made myself known. He was terribly glad, as well as surprised to see me. We had parted as enemies but now met as friends. He informed me that there wasn’t but three, besides himself, of the old outfit left, and those were the old steward, who was now proprietor, “Old” Mike, who was still acting as night watchman, and Cunningham, the fellow who had slapped me and who was still clerk. The latter gentleman I didn’t get to shake hands with as he failed to put in an appearance during my stay.
The next morning I struck out to hunt sister. I was armed with an old letter which gave the address, therefore had no trouble in finding her.
She was alone with her three pretty little girls, her husband having gone up town to his place of business—a drug store—when I found her.
The first thing she asked after kissing me, was, where I got my new suit?
Of course I had to acknowledge that I bought them from a Jew on Fourth street.
She then became frantic and wanted to know why in the world I didn’t go to Humphry’s and get them?
“Who in the dickens is Humphry?” I asked.
“Why, I thought everybody knew Mr. Humphry,” she continued.
She took me up town to this great establishment of Humphry’s that evening and there I learnt how badly I had been bitten by the Jew.
I remained in the city about a week and my brother-in-law spent most of his time showing me the sights.
Before taking the train for Texas I bought mother a trunk full of clothes, knowing that she would be in need of them after having “roughed it” for nearly eight years.
I stopped in Houston one day looking for Aunt Mary, but learnt finally that she had moved to the country.
I then took in Galveston and spent two days visiting Uncle Nick and Aunt Julia. From there I went to Indianola on a Morgan Steamship and became sea sick; Oh, Lord! I concluded I would prefer the hurricane deck of a spanish pony to that of a ship, every time.
In the town of Indianola I met a lot of my old Peninsula play-mates, who were there from Matagorda, in their sail boats, with freight.
There being no boats down from Tresspalacious, I left my trunk to be shipped up the first chance and went to Matagorda with the two Williams’ boys, Johnny and Jimmy. Nearly all the Peninsula folks lived in the vicinity of Matagorda now since the great storm of 1875, washed everything they had out into the Gulf, besides drowning about half of their number. Hence me going to Matagorda to visit them.
There were three Tresspalacious boys in Matagorda, and one of them, Jim Keller, loaned me his horse and saddle to ride home on.
Mother was happy when I told her to get ready and go to Kansas with me. There was only one thing she hated to leave behind, and that was her wood pile. She had spent the past two years lugging wood from along the creek and piling it up against her old shanty for “old age,” she said. I suppose her idea in piling it against the house, on all sides, was to keep it from blowing over, should some kind of an animal accidently blow its breath against it.
After spending about a week, visiting friends and waiting for my trunk to arrive from Indianola, I struck out with mother for the enterprising State of Kansas.
I hired a neighbor, Mr. Cornelious, to take us to the Railroad, fifty miles north. He hauled us in an old go cart—one that had been sent from Germany in 1712—drawn by two brindle oxen.
We arrived in Caldwell a few days before Christmas and after getting mother established in her new house, I went to work for the “L. X.” company again.
I had secured a winter’s job from Mr. Beals before leaving therefore it was all ready for me to take charge of on my return. The job was feeding and taking care of about two hundred head of horses, at the company’s ranch on the Territory line, near Caldwell.
Having lots of fat ponies to ride, I used to take a dash up town nearly every night to see how mother was getting along and to see my sweethearts. Thus the winter passed off pleasantly.
About the first of March I received orders from Mr. Beals, who was then at his home in Boston, Mass, to get everything in shape to start for the Panhandle at a moment’s notice.
That very night, after those orders were received, I fell head over heels in love with a pretty little fifteen-year old,1 black-eyed miss, whom I accidently met. It was a genuine case of love at first sight. I wanted her, and wanted her badly, therefore I went to work with a brave heart and my face lined with brass. It required lots of brass too, as I had to do considerable figuring with the old gent, she being his only daughter.
Just thre
e days after meeting we were engaged and at the end of the next three days we were made one. And three days later I was on my way to the Panhandle with an outfit of twenty-five men, one hundred horses and six wagons.
An eighteen day’s drive, southwest, brought us to the “L. X.” ranch. After laying there about a week, resting up, Hollicott sent me and my outfit south to attend the round ups in the Red River country.
We arrived back at the ranch about July the first, with three thousand head of “L. X.” cattle which had drifted south during the past winter.
As I was anxious to get back to Kansas to see my wife and mother, Hollicott immediately gathered eight hundred fat shipping steers and started me.
I arrived in Caldwell September the first, and after shipping the herd, Mr. Beals ordered me to take the outfit back to the Panhandle and get another drove. This of course didn’t suit, as I had only been at home a few days. But then what could I do? I hated to give up a good job, with no prospects of making a living by remaining in town.
I finally concluded to obey orders, so started the men and horses up the Territory line, while I and Sprague went to town with the wagon to load it with chuck. Mr. Beals had taken the train the day before to be absent quite a while. After getting the wagon loaded and ready to start, I suddenly swore off cow-punching and turned everything over to Mr. Sprague, who bossed the outfit back to the Panhandle.
The next day I rented a vacant room on Main street and, rolling up my sleeves and putting on a pair of suspenders, the first I had ever worn, started out as a merchant—on a six-bit scale. Thus one cow-puncher takes a sensible tumble and drops out of the ranks.
Now, dear reader in bidding you adieu, will say: should you not be pleased with the substance of this book, I’ve got nothing to say in defence, as I gave you the best I had in my little shop, but before you criticise it from a literary standpoint, bear in mind that the writer had fits until he was ten years of age, and hasn’t fully recovered from the effects.
ADDENDA.1
THOSE WISHING INFORMATION AS TO PROFITS AND LOSSES IN THE STOCK BUSINESS AS IT IS CARRIED ON AT THE PRESENT DATE, CAN FIND IT—OR AT LEAST PART OF IT—IN THE FOLLOWING PAGES; AND ALSO A FEW WORDS OF ADVICE TO THOSE WISHING TO SEEK WORK ON THE BROAD CATTLE RANGES OF THE WEST.
PART I.
IN TEXAS several years ago, the cost of raising a steer—no matter how old—was fifty cents, that being the cost of having him branded when a calf.
In those days men ran outfits, called “branding crowds,” for the purpose of branding “mavricks” for themselves—and at the same time brand their poor neighbors’ calves at fifty cents a head. In using the word poor, I mean men, or widows, not able to run a “crowd” of their own.
As a general thing the men who conducted those “branding crowds” used a forked pencil—that is, every time they branded a calf for a neighbor they would make a stroke in their day book with this double-geared money maker. The consequence would naturally be, that the poor widow, or crippled Rebel, would have a double number of calves to pay for about New Years. But then it turned out all right; as in after years the Eastern speculator, or “short horn,” began to embark into the stock business with his eyes shut. That is, buying whole “brands” of cattle out according to the old books. For instance, if the aforesaid widow, or stove-up “Reb,” could show up, and prove, that she or he had so many calves branded the past season, the buyer would pay for four times as many—that is, counting five head of cattle for every calf branded the year previous. Thus it will be seen that the forked pencil racket proved a blessing to the poor. The day though, of inveigling the eastern tenderfoot into paying for more than he really gets, is past, never more to return.
The cost of raising a three-year old steer on any of the great cattle ranges of the west can safely be put down at $4.75. That is, at the present time. Of course as time glides on and the humane feeling which now exists in the east shall invade the west, then the cost will be more, as the building of sheds, etc., for winter use, will be necessary.
To get that three-year old steer in Chicago, and a check or draft, for him, will cost $5.75, making the total cost $10.50. Now the average weight of a three-year old Texas grass fed steer on the Chicago market is 950 pounds. And the average price per pound, putting it at the lowest notch, is 3 cents, making the steer bring $28.50—leaving a net profit of $18.
PART II.
Driving young steers “up the trail” and “wintering” them, as a money making scheme.
IN SOUTH, or south-western Texas at the present time, you can buy two-year old steers for $10 a head. And to get them “up the trail” to any of the northern ranges, if an average sized herd, which is 2500, will cost $1 a head.
To “winter,” or carry those steers over until the next shipping time, which is between June and October, will cost an additional $2. Now add the cost of landing them in Chicago, which I gave you above, also at the same weight and price as given above, and you have a net profit of $9.75 a head. The losses by death, theft, etc., are not included; but then you can safely put the losses “coming up the trail” at 2 per cent. providing of course that you use judgment in hiring experienced men, and buying good cow-ponies. And the losses during the winter from deaths—if you fed hay during stormy weather, which, by the way, was figured on when I put the cost of “wintering” at $2—and other causes would be about 1½ per cent.
Another class of trail steers are yearlings, which at the present time are worth in south and south-west Texas, $8 a head.
The cost of handling them is about the same as two-year olds. So counting $1 a head to drive them up the trail, $4 to “double winter” them—that is, carry them over two winters—and $5.75 to land them in Chicago, and you have a profit of $9.75—the same as for the two-year olds. The only difference is, you have had the fun of putting in two years with the yearlings, which is quite an item, providing you don’t value time nor money, and like the business.
PART III.
Starting into the cattle business with 100 head of two year old heifers—what a young man of energy and bull dog grit can do in ten years.
BEING A SMALL BUNCH, it wouldn’t pay to go to southern Texas, where cattle are cheap, to buy them, therefore you would have to pay about $15 a head for your one hundred two-year old cows, delivered to you. By the way, those same animals would cost you $10 a head in southern Texas, and if a good sized herd, another $1 bill per head to land them on your ranch—a saving of $4 a head, if able to start on a large scale; or lucky enough to strike a party who would let you drive in with them. Often you can strike just such chances, where a man is driving a large herd and will let you put your few head in with his—he paying you regular wages, and charging you so much a head for driving your cattle. By getting a chance like that your wages would almost pay the whole expense of getting your little bunch onto any of the middle or northern ranges.
After selecting your range, which, if you are a “tender-foot,” should be as far as possible from a large cattle ranch, you should invest about $200 in four head of nice half-breed bulls—and another $200 in Spanish ponies, mostly young mares, so you could raise your own cow-ponies. My reason for advising you not to get near a large ranch is this: your cattle would be continually mixing up with your neighbors’ herd, and there being so many, and scattered over so much territory, you couldn’t keep track of them. Therefore a number of your calves would become “mavricks” and be eaten or branded by your generous cow-boy neighbors. If you understood the “ropes,” and had the conscience, like your humble servant, it would pay you to get just as near as possible to one of those large English cattle syndicates, as then your herd would increase faster, and if you wished to sell out they would buy at good round figures to get rid of you.
An inexperienced man though starting in, I would advise locating, or buying out a water right, in the mountains of Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico or north-western Texas. As by so doing you could count every one of your cattle when they came into water. Wherea
s, on the ranges of the plains country you have the continual expense and bother of rounding-up, cutting out, etc., on account of them drifting during storms. In the mountains they find shelter and therefore don’t drift much.
To begin now on your increase for ten years we will say that you began in the early spring. If so, you would brand 50 calves the coming fall.
The next fall you would brand 74 head; the next 96; and the fourth fall 108 head. Your next branding would be 135 head; the next 180. And still the next, which would be the seventh fall, 232 head. Another summer gone and 270 more frolicking calves in your herd. The branding season is over again, and another 290 calves. The leaves are falling once more and your hot branding-iron has made 470 more little calves squirm. Now for the next branding, at which time you have been in the business a few months over ten years, of 624 calves. Thus your increase has run up to 2529 head. Half of those are steers which, if you have used “blooded” bulls, at an average weight of 1000 pounds, and the average Chicago price, for that class of stock, of 4 cents per pound, would make them bring $40 a head.
Now, deduct the cost of raising those steers, $4.75 per head, and the cost of landing them in Chicago, $5.75 per head, and you have a net profit of $36.656. The steer calves of the last two brandings, of course wouldn’t be marketable at the expiration of the time, but then we figured them in just to give you a rough guess of what your ten years’ labor would amount to after all the steers had been sold.
Now, if you have used good judgment in securing your water right—that is, far enough from any other water so that you wouldn’t be bothered with neighbors, and thereby have grass enough—you can imagine your future income on those 1264 head of she cattle—not counting what’s left of your nest eggs, the first 100 head. You should also figure on the value of your stock of ponies, and the increased value of your ranch property.
In estimating the above I have figured on your putting up a few stacks of prairie hay—although you might not need it often; when you did, it would be like the Texan’s pistol, you would need it like—.