by Peter Grant
“Don’t shoot! I give up!” Smith called desperately, clutching his bleeding shoulder while craning his neck to see what had happened to his men. “That’s my lil brother back there! You gotta help him!”
“Stay where you are!” Bill ordered. “Lenny, Dave, take his gun, search him, and tie his hands with a rawhide thong. Stop the bleeding with his bandana. Frank, Nick, do the same for that man with his hands up. Sheldon, Willy, check the two on the ground. Take everything from their pockets, gather up their guns and horses, and bring it all back here.”
The cows being driven by the four men had been far enough away from the shooting that they hadn’t stampeded. They moved restlessly, but didn’t try to run off.
As the six men went about obeying Bill’s orders, the scout tensed. “Another man on the ridge up there, boss!” He pointed to where a figure had stood up from behind a bush, several hundred yards away. As they watched, he took off his hat and gave a ‘wave around’, a circling motion with his hat above his head in a clockwise direction. He made no other movement, and was not holding a weapon.
“Ride up there and see what he wants, Smiler. Take one of the others with you. Be careful!”
“You bet I will!”
The scout selected Willy, and the two of them rode off in the direction of the lone figure, who led a horse from the bushes and mounted it, then rode slowly towards them. Meanwhile, the others returned to where Bill waited, bringing the unwounded prisoner. Jeb Smith’s face was ashen with pain, and tears were in his eyes as he kept looking towards the two bodies lying on the ground. “That was my lil brother, damn you!” he muttered brokenly.
“Then you should’ve kept him safe at home,” Bill retorted. “All right, let’s have it. What are you really doin’ out here with this herd?”
“Go to hell!”
“I’ll tell you, mister!” the younger prisoner said eagerly. “Just promise you won’t hang me!”
“I won’t hang you, boy. Besides, even if I wanted to, I don’t see any trees out here. Come on, tell it!”
“Keep your damned mouth shut!” Smith raged.
Bill snapped, “Dave, gag him!” He waited until the cursing man had been silenced, then said to the youngster, “Go on. We ain’t got all day.”
In fits and starts, the story came out. The four had stolen the cattle from a group of German immigrants, who’d traveled from the hill country of southern Texas to buy properties near Fort Griffin. They had been fifty miles from their destination when they had stopped one night. The four had shot the two men on night herd duty, and stampeded the cattle and horses before the settlers could get organized to stop them. That had been ten days before. They had gathered most of the scattered animals, then driven the herd westward, to avoid pursuit and the search that would inevitably be made along the Great Western cattle trail to Kansas. Short of food and lacking almost everything needed for a trail drive, Smith, their leader, had decided to try to join up with Bill’s herd after seeing its dust on the horizon. He’d hoped to get the stolen steers to a place where he could sell them.
As the young man finished his story, the scout and Willy returned, accompanied by a man dressed in range clothing. He rode up to Bill and offered his hand. “I’m Jim Buckley. I scout for the Army at Fort Griffin.”
Bill shook his hand. “Glad t’ meet you. What brings you out here?”
“Our patrol ran into a bunch o’ German immigrants, who said their hosses had been scattered and their cattle stolen. I’ve been trailin’ the thieves ever since. My patrol’s about two, three hours behind, I guess.” He glanced at the two bound men, then at the bodies on the ground. “I’d say you done our work for us. The Lieutenant’ll be obliged to you.”
Bill made a swift decision. “I’ll halt the herd for today. It’s only mid-mornin’, so if you go find your patrol, you can come up to us by evening. I’ll feed you all, and you can rest with us overnight. Tomorrow you can head back, takin’ the cattle an’ these two men with you.”
“Sounds good to me, ’specially the food. We’ve been on short rations, ’cause the patrol’s gone on longer than usual, chasin’ these men. I’m thankin’ you. Where will you hold these cows in the meantime?”
“Don’t want to risk them gettin’ mixed up with ours. We’ll hold them here. I’ll leave two men on guard over them.”
“Thanks. We’ll take over that duty when the patrol gets here. Some o’ the Germans are with us, and they’ll want to take charge of their own cattle again.”
“All right. See you tonight.”
As the Army scout turned his horse and cantered back in the direction from which he’d come, the uninjured survivor asked, “What about Ben an’ Joe?” He nodded to the two bodies lying on the grass. “You gonna bury them?”
“Like hell we are!” Bill snorted. “We bury folks who deserve it. Cow thieves don’t. Let the coyotes, the buzzards and the ants have ’em. They got to eat, too.”
The trail boss detailed two cowhands to tend the small herd, then led the rest of his men back to his own, which was duly bedded down. The cattle had been watered earlier that morning, so they made no complaint. Learning from his prisoners that the stolen herd had not been watered since the previous morning, Bill sent two more of his hands to help drive it to the nearest water, let the steers drink, then bring them back.
Forewarned about their cavalry guests, the cook prepared double the usual quantity of food for supper, drawing grateful thanks from the troopers and the Germans when they arrived late that afternoon. They guzzled down multiple helpings of the unexpected bounty.
The leader of the German party, Gustavus Braun, came to see Bill after supper, along with the Lieutenant in charge of the patrol. “I must sank you for recovering our cattle,” the German said formally in a heavy accent, bowing slightly. “Ve are most grateful to you.”
“De nada,” Bill assured him, only to see incomprehension in his eyes. “It’s nothing. I was savin’ myself trouble when I stopped them. I didn’t know about you yet.”
“You also saved the expense of a trial for two of them,” Lieutenant Robichaud said with grim satisfaction. “We’ll take the other two back with us. They killed one man and wounded another when they stole those cattle, so they’ll be charged with murder.”
Braun nodded sadly. “Ve vill have to buy better guns, and learn to use zem,” he admitted. “Zis frontier land is more violent zan ve had been led to believe. We thought zat vis ze end of ze Indian wars, zis area vould be peaceful now.”
“You can take their guns for a start,” Bill offered. “They had four rifles an’ four revolvers. They won’t have any use for them any more, or their hosses. You can keep them too.”
“Indeed they won’t,” Robichaud confirmed. “There’s a gallows at Fort Griffin. I’ve no doubt those two will be swinging from it within a few weeks. I’ll ask you to write a statement for the court, Mr. Nieman, describing your fight with them and what that youngster told you.”
“I’ll do that. I’ll give you some supplies, too, to get you safely back to Fort Griffin. We’ve got plenty.”
“My thanks, sir. We accept with gratitude. I’m sure the Commanding Officer at Fort Griffin will mention your assistance and your generosity in his report.”
13
September 1875
The second herd of the five had so far made good progress, with few problems apart from the occasional minor stampede, none bad enough that many cattle had been lost. Nate Barger had begun to enjoy himself. At Tyler’s suggestion – more of a command, really – he’d accepted the position of trail boss for this herd.
“You’ve been a cowhand before, sure, and the manager of a hoss ranch, but you’ve never been a trail boss,” Tyler had pointed out. “You’ve got to prove yourself as a cattle boss before cowhands will accept you as segundo of the Circle CAR. Drivin’ a herd all the way to the Panhandle will do that. I’ll let you have Arnie Miller, one of my trail bosses, as your segundo for the drive. I’ll still pay him a trail
boss’s wage, so he won’t mind, and he’ll give you good advice if you need it. Listen to him.”
“I will,” Nate had promised, and he had. With Arnie’s help, he’d managed to overcome all the challenges that had so far presented themselves. The trail crew had come to accept him as a knowledgeable cowhand in his own right, and a good man to work for.
On a bone-dry September evening, with lightning flickering across the western horizon, Nate stood by the fire with Arnie, drinking coffee after supper, planning the following day’s drive. Arnie glanced at a particularly bright flash of lightning. “It’s gettin’ bad over there,” he observed. “No rain that I can see or smell, an’ that’s a problem. With the grass so dry around here, we might get a prairie fire.”
Nate licked the tip of one finger and held it up. The slight breeze was blowing from the west. He nodded. “Could be. I’ll have the night herd keep their eyes and ears open.”
“Iffen I was you, I’d roust out the scouts right now,” Arnie suggested. “Send them out to the west. If they see any sign of fire, they’ll have to figure out where, how big and how far away, then come foggin’ it back here to tell us.”
“Good idea. They won’t thank us for a sleepless night, but…”
“Yeah. But that’s why we pay them.”
The scouts weren’t pleased, but they understood the necessity. They saddled fresh horses and headed out, one riding due west, one south-west and one north-west.
Nate turned in, only to be woken at three in the morning by the rush of returning hooves. A scout jumped off his horse as Nate got out of his blankets, and hurried over. “It’s a fire, sure enough, boss,” the man said. “It’s about five, six mile off and burnin’ this way. The wind’s real low at this time o’ night, but it allus picks up with the dawn.”
“How wide is the fire front?”
“A good two, three miles, boss, and it’ll get wider as the wind drives it.”
Arnie joined him as Nate thought swiftly. He turned to the other man. “Arnie, the Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River’s about five miles north o’ here. I’ve crossed it before. As I recall, it’s about a quarter of a mile wide, with a shallow channel o’ water in the middle an’ wide sandy flats on either side – nothin’ much growin’ on them.”
“That’s right, at least the part near where we are. I’ve crossed it too, several times.”
“What if we drive straight north, right now? We can be almost at the river by dawn, and across it soon afterwards. Unless the wind gets a whole lot stronger than it’s been, I doubt the fire will jump the river. What d’you think?”
“I’d say do it. The cattle won’t like bein’ forced to get up an’ walk this early, but I’d sooner rile them than have them smell smoke gettin’ nearer. That might spook ’em into a stampede.”
“Thanks.” Nate spun on his heel, looking around the circle of slumbering cowhands in their bedrolls as he yelled, “All hands! ALL HANDS! Roust out o’ your beds! We got a prairie fire comin’, and we’ve got to move the herd right now!”
The cook stumbled over, wiping sleep from his eyes. “What about food, boss?”
“No time this morning. Get your chuckwagon moving, and you teamsters, do the same. We’ve got to get clear of the flames before they arrive.”
It took less than half an hour to get everybody mounted, and stir the slumbering cattle into action. They protested with loud bovine bellows, but under the relentless prodding of the cowhands, they finally started moving. Nate had the point men head them directly north, towards the river, and sent the scout ahead to find a suitable crossing place.
The man returned with good and bad news. “There’s a place just east of our line where the banks are clear an’ the herd can get down without trouble,” he reported. “There’s a straight shot across the river to the other side, and it’s shallow water, so they won’t have to swim. Trouble is, there’s quicksand downstream. It nearly sucked me in. Any cattle that stray into it are gonna be mired deep.”
Nate swore under his breath as he thought. He turned to Arnie. “Will you take four or five hands and set up a line, to keep the cows from strayin’ downstream?”
“I’ll try, but with three thousand head and only a few hands, some of them are bound to slip past us. Also, don’t forget, we planned to water the herd at the river anyway. They’ll be thirsty. The leaders will want to stop and drink, but the others pushin’ in behind them will shove them over the river before they can. They’ll circle back to the water both up an’ downstream, an’ that’ll push some of ’em into the quicksand.”
“I know. We may still lose some to the quicksand, but that’s better’n losin’ a lot to the fire. Do your best to block those you can. We’ll sort out the mess once the herd is clear of the flames.”
Arnie nodded. “I’ll pick four steady men and head out right away. We’re only a couple of miles from the river.”
“Do that. Take the scout to show you where to go. Thanks, Arnie.”
The herd approached the river bank in a jumble, the cattle still confused after their early start in the darkness of the night. The leading steers tumbled over the shallow bluff marking the edge of the river channel, bawling their surprise and displeasure. More and more steers followed them, bulging out into an ungainly sprawl of cattle as the herd crossed the sandy flats and entered the water. The leading steers tried to drink, but as Arnie had feared, they were pushed through the water by the press of animals shoving in behind them. They tried to turn around and get back to the water, only to produce a milling crowd of cattle on the far bank that impeded the progress of the rest of the herd.
Arnie and his four cowhands tried valiantly to prevent the herd moving downstream, but the sheer number of animals concentrated into so small a space defeated their efforts. First a few, then a score, then several dozen animals became bogged down, bawling their surprise and dismay. That agitated the rest of the herd even more. Several small stampedes broke out, groups of cattle suddenly panicking and racing away from the main body, looking for illusory safety in any direction. Fortunately, they had crossed the river first, so they would not be at risk from the flames on the south bank.
Nate and the rest of the crew rode like hellions, back and forth along both sides of the herd. By now they could see the red glow of flames drawing nearer, and smell the smoke. By the time the last of the cattle were shoved into the river channel, the fire was less than half a mile away, and closing in fast.
“Get the wagons over, quick as you can!” Nate yelled to the teamsters. He sent the rest of the cowhands to accompany the herd, and stayed behind to help if possible.
The chuckwagon rattled and crashed its way over the bluff and down the bank, followed by three freight wagons. The fourth found the bluff loosened and crumbling, thanks to thousands of cattle having eroded the soil. The hooves of its team of oxen, and its iron-rimmed wheels, sank deep into the dirt. The heavily-laden wagon, still loaded with everything it had brought from Colorado, swayed, tilted, and crashed down on its side as the ground gave way beneath its wheels.
Nate swore aloud as he flicked a glance at the flames. They were now only a couple of hundred yards away. “Cut the team loose!” he bellowed. “Get the oxen clear! Leave the wagon! There’s no time to save it!” He galloped over to the last wagon. “Head to the right of the fallen wagon. The bluff’s a bit higher, but the ground’s still firm. If you take it slow and straight, you should make it down.”
“Yassuh!” the teamster yelled, and flicked his bullwhip to the left of the heads of the leading oxen. Flinching from the whipcrack noise, they swung to the right. They stumbled down the suddenly steep slope, and the wagon rocked dangerously as it took the drop; but the teamster applied the brake, to prevent it overrunning its team. Thanks to their straight-ahead pull, it survived the descent, and rattled across the river in the wake of the preceding vehicles.
The teamster in charge of the toppled wagon cut loose his oxen and drove the still-spanned animals down the slope. The
scared animals hurried across the river to get away from the fire, that could now be heard as well as seen and smelt. Nate followed, last person to leave the scene. On the far bank, he drew rein and looked back. Flames were already licking along the canvas top of the fallen wagon. He knew it would burn out within the hour.
Nate forced the lost vehicle from his mind as he volleyed orders to his crew. The cattle were pushed upstream, to allow them all to drink where the fire had already passed by on the opposite bank, which was less unsettling for them. They were then gathered together on a holding ground well away from the river. As soon as they had settled down, a group of cowhands under Arnie headed back to the river to try to free the cattle still trapped in the quicksand. Nate left another group in charge of the herd, with instructions to hold it together, while he led a third team after the animals that had stampeded.
It took most of the day to get things settled down. They would not know how many cattle had escaped until they could run a trail count when they moved out, but Nate estimated that at least a hundred were missing. As for those trapped in the quicksand, about half had been hauled out on the end of lassos, or by straps passed around their bodies and pulled by the ox teams from the wagons. However, upwards of thirty had become so deeply mired they could not be freed. They were shot, rather than left to slowly suffocate.
The cook took advantage of the situation to cut as much good meat as he could from their carcasses. He couldn’t get at their hindquarters, sunk deep in the quicksand; but he used a plank to cross the quicksand to reach them. Standing on their backs wielding an axe, he cut their ribs free from their spines. Some he cooked in Dutch ovens over coals as standing rib roasts, serving them for supper to the very appreciative trail crew. He carved out the prime rib meat from inside the curve of the others, sliced it thin, seasoned it with salt and a dry chili rub, and strung it on lines beneath the wagon canopies to air-dry, protected from flies and dust by a muslin covering. It would provide food for several days, if it didn’t spoil.