by Peter Grant
“You did damned well,” Arnie complimented Nate wearily as they ate supper together. “Sure, we lost some, but anyone would have in that kinda mess. You saved most of the herd.”
“Thanks,” Nate said sadly. “Doesn’t feel like a good job, what with a supply wagon burned up with all its cargo, and over a hundred head dead or missing. Still, it could’ve been a lot worse.”
“That’s for sure an’ certain. Tyler lost more’n five hundred head to a prairie fire on the Chisholm Trail through the Indian Nations, a few years back. We allus reckoned the Injuns had set the fire to stampede the herd, an’ steal what they could in the confusion.”
Somehow, Nate felt better, knowing he’d lost less cattle than his boss had on another occasion. “I bet Tyler was mad.”
“Oh, he could’ve chewed horseshoes an’ spat out iron nails! I reckon, if he’d found any Injuns with some of our cattle, he’d have shot ’em on sight. Prob’ly a good thing he didn’t, or he’d have sparked another Injun war!”
Tyler couldn’t help remembering the same incident a few days later as he read Nate’s report of the fire, brought to him by one of the herd’s scouts. His face twisted sourly as he read of the losses. However, he cheered up considerably when he read Arnie Miller’s accompanying note. “Nate did real well,” his long-time trail boss reassured him. “He didn’t hesitate, he did the right thing, and he did it as well as anyone else could have done, even you or I. He also knew when to cut his losses, letting one wagon go to save the others and the herd, instead of fussing and trying to save them all. I reckon he’ll make a fine segundo for the Circle CAR.”
Reassured, Tyler made rapid mental calculations. Nate reported losing a total of 182 cattle to stampedes and quicksand. Lee Jarvis’ herd had lost 773, and Josh was missing a dozen after his hard ride to get clear of the buffalo migration. The five herds had also been consuming cattle as they moved, to provide fresh meat to their crews when game could not be hunted. They’d used injured or trouble-making animals whenever possible, but even so, that had added up to a consumption so far of 302 steers. They’d started out with 15,210 cattle, so all those losses combined – a total of 1,269 head – brought their numbers down to 13,941. On the other hand, the herds had been scouring the plains around them for mavericks as they moved slowly north. So far they’d found 792, all of which now bore the Circle CAR brand. That brought the total back up to 14,733, a much more satisfactory figure.
“We’re sure to lose at least a few hundred more,” he muttered to himself. “We’ve still got the whole winter to get through, and then the drive to the railhead. We may find more mavericks in the Panhandle, but we may not. I’ll have to remind the trail bosses to have their hands hunt for as much meat as possible, to spare the cattle.”
He made a mental note to write to Walt, telling him of the loss of another freight wagon, this one with its entire cargo. At least they’d saved the team. That was something.
14
October-December 1875
As the last of the heavily laden wagons pulled out of the old freight yard, Sam swung into the saddle of his horse and reached down to shake Walt’s hand. “I’ll see ’em safely to the Sweetwater, boss,” he promised.
“I’m relyin’ on you to do just that. Send us a telegraph message through the nearest office as soon as you can, to let us know when you got there. I hope the fort will have a telegraph wire put in soon.”
“Me, too, boss. I’ll let you know.”
Sam shook Samson’s hand as well, then turned his horse and cantered after the wagons. As he passed them, he mentally catalogued all they carried. Six Schuttler-built double wagons, a big front hauler towing a smaller rear unit, could handle up to eleven thousand pounds together, a total capacity of five and a half tons. For this trip, their combined length was more important than their weight rating. Walt had removed the rear panel of the front wagon and the front panel of the rear wagon, then loaded extra-long poles, beams and rafters aboard them, some from the old warehouse, others for new construction. They stretched back from the front wagon into the rear unit, which provided additional support to them.
Sam knew they’d be a stone cold bitch to handle when going around sharp turns or crossing rivers. The sides of the rear wagon might have to be lowered, or the cargo might have to be unloaded and reloaded, to accomplish both maneuvers. He had extra workers along to help with that, but was still determined to avoid such situations if at all possible. His scouts would look for the easiest, straightest possible route, even if it meant traveling a little further each day.
Thirty conventional ox-wagons accompanied them. Some carried enough supplies to see Tyler’s men and cattle to the ranch site, and then all the way to Dodge City. Others were laden with planks and building materials. Sixteen Sibley tents were included, each with its strange-looking conical stove, to shelter the trail crews during the long, cold winter. Walt wasn’t sure what they’d use for fuel, but the stoves could burn dried buffalo and cow pats if there was no wood available. Sam grinned to himself. Whether there would be enough truly dry pats available during winter was another question, of course. If they were even a little moist, the stench of burning dung would be unbearable. Another pair of wagons carried conventional wood-burning stoves and stovepipes, each big enough to heat a room up to twenty feet square. They had been taken out of the buildings at the old freight yard, where they were no longer in use, and would be installed in buildings at the new depot and ranch sites.
Walt had acted on Sam’s and Dan’s suggestions about gifts for the Army post on the Sweetwater. One wagon was filled with goods for the soldiers. Instead of just a canvas canopy, like the other wagons, its load bed was now topped with a solid plank barrier, screwed into the sides, to make it difficult for hungry and thirsty teamsters – or anyone else – to help themselves. Sam knew he was going to have his work cut out to keep its contents secure.
Walt hadn’t stopped there. Another wagon was filled with leather work gloves, mittens, thick woolen socks, neck-warmers, union suits and sheepskin coats, enough for all Tyler’s cowhands and the teamsters who were traveling with him. Those with this second wagon train had already received theirs. “If we’re gonna make the Army comfortable through the winter, I’ll be damned if our people are gonna be less comfortable,” his boss had declared emphatically. “They’ll have to pay for what they want, but I’ll charge them cost price and deduct it from their bonuses at Dodge City. Meanwhile, they’ll be warm.” Sam could not help but approve.
Ten armed guards flanked the wagons, five spread out along each side. At present they were relaxed, but once the wagons were in open country, they’d keep a watchful vigil. What’s more, every teamster was armed with a revolver and rifle. The cargo on board the wagons would be worth thousands of dollars to thieves, and Sam was determined to make sure they didn’t get their hands on it. Three scouts would help to scour the country through which they moved, to warn of any potential danger.
Walt had held a competition for the armed guard positions, which were paid at teamster rates. Anyone who wanted to be considered had to demonstrate proficiency with rifle and revolver, on horseback and on foot, over distances up to three hundred yards. They also had to own cartridge weapons of modern design. That had eliminated a number of applicants who still clung to their cap-and-ball revolvers and single-shot carbines for reasons of economy, as did some of the teamsters.
The orphaned youths whom Walt had hired as trainee teamsters had been particularly avid competitors for the guard positions, training diligently with the older guns he’d loaned them, and scoring well. On the understanding that the cost of their new weapons would come out of their arrear pay and bonuses at Dodge City, he’d accepted four of the best shots among them as armed guards, and bought them Colt revolvers and Winchester rifles. They carried them as if they were badges of honor. Sam grinned at them tolerantly. Once upon a time, he’d been a young, proud buffalo soldier, so he understood how they were feeling.
As the lo
ng train of wagons moved out of Pueblo and into the countryside, Sam settled down in his saddle. Ahead lay the best part of four hundred miles, traveling east to La Junta, then swinging southeast to Sweetwater Creek in the Panhandle. It would take the heavily laden ox-wagons thirty to forty days to complete the journey, moving slowly and carefully.
Tyler spent a week carefully considering his next moves. All five herds had now reached the base of the Panhandle, spread out over a distance of about eighty miles from east to west. They would now begin moving directly north towards the Canadian River, traveling slowly – not more than three to five miles per day on average – and stopping frequently, grazing on the curly mesquite grass still carpeting the area, which could be eaten year-round.
By this time, the floating outfit had been reduced in size. Three of its riders had been assigned to Lee Jarvis’ herd to replace his lost cowhands, and two more were filling in for injured cowhands with other herds, leaving only seven of their number with Tyler. That wasn’t enough for what he had in mind; but, if the herds slowed to a relative crawl, they could get by with fewer cowhands, particularly now that all of them had been on the trail for months, and the cattle had grown accustomed to the daily routine. He sent messages to all the herds, asking each trail boss to let him have two hands and one scout until the new year. They arrived over the next week in response to his message. With the remaining seven members of the floating outfit, that gave him twenty-two hands. Satisfied that Nate could handle his herd without further assistance, Tyler summoned Arnie Miller to join him as well.
“Here’s what you’re gonna do,” he told the men when Arnie arrived. “We’re down several hundred cattle that we’ve lost over the summer, and we’re bound to lose more over the winter. I want to replace as many of them as I can with mavericks. Right now there are no other ranches or herds in the eastern Panhandle, as far as I know. That means any unbranded strays out there belong to the first outfit to slap its brand on them.
“Arnie will take the cowhands to this point on a north-south line runnin’ up the middle of the Panhandle.” He pointed to their destination on a map. “When you get there, go about ten to twenty miles north, dependin’ on the terrain. Sweep east from there towards the border with the Indian Nations, gatherin’ an’ brandin’ every maverick you find. When you get to the border, deliver what you’ve found to the nearest of our herds, then move ten to twenty miles further north and sweep back to the west, to the midpoint of the Panhandle. Deliver your gather to the nearest herd, then do that again and again, north and east sweeps followed by north and west, until you’ve gone all the way to the Cherokee Outlet at the top of the Panhandle.”
Arnie nodded thoughtfully. “Iffen we do this right, we’ll clean out almost all the mavericks in the area, afore anyone else has a chance to claim ’em.”
“That’s the idea. D’you all get it?”
“Sure, boss.” “I reckon.” The acknowledgements came from all sides.
“You’ll take the floating outfit’s hoss-drawn chuckwagon and bedroll wagon with you. Resupply from their freight wagons every time you deliver cattle to one of our herds. We got more supplies comin’ down from Colorado, to that new Army post on Sweetwater Creek. I’ll arrange for them to be delivered to the herds as soon as they get there.”
“What’ll you be doin’, boss?” a hand asked.
“I’m gonna take the scouts to look for our ranch site. We’ll first go to that new Army post, to make sure we know where it is and what their patrol patterns are, then we’ll look for a likely place. Soon as we find it, we’ll head back to the Army post to meet up with the wagons and send out the supplies.”
Major Bankhead, Commanding Officer of what was still officially known as the Cantonment on the Sweetwater, was pleased to meet Tyler. “I’d been wondering when you’d get here,” he greeted him as he shook his hand. “Your partner, Walter Ames, wrote to me from Pueblo, advising that you were coming this way with a lot of cattle, and that he’d be sending a wagon train here to meet you with supplies. I’m very glad to know you’ll be ranching nearby. We need a local supplier for ration beef.”
“I’ll be happy to contract with you for that,” Tyler promised. “If you need some quickly, I can send cattle here from one of my trail herds.”
“Thank you. Mr. Ames has also offered to contract with us for freight services from the railhead in Dodge City. His outfit will be the only freight company operating in the area for some time, I’m sure, so we’ll probably use his services.”
“I’ll be using Ames Transport myself, to ship goods to the ranch as we build up. The company will likely set up a branch office down here.”
Bankhead added, “Mr. Ames also asked me to find out whether a Kiowa sub-chief named Laughing Raven was still alive, and where he could be reached. Do you know why he’s interested in him?”
“They met back in ’66, and again last year. Walt says Laughing Raven is a good man. That’s all I know.”
“I see. I’ve written to Fort Sill, asking the Commanding Officer there to find out from the Kiowa reservation agent whether Laughing Raven survived the fighting.”
They sat down and discussed prospects over a cup of coffee. Tyler learned that the outpost was currently manned by detachments from the 4th Cavalry Regiment and the 19th Infantry Regiment, totaling 263 men. “They’re talking about naming this place Fort Elliott,” the Major told him, “after Major Joel Elliott. He was killed at the Battle of the Washita River in 1868, only a few miles east of here in the Indian Nations.”
“That was when Custer went after Black Kettle, right?”
“Yes.”
The officer couldn’t prevent a spasm of anger from flitting across his face. Tyler had heard that many in the US Army had reportedly never forgiven Custer for seemingly abandoning Major Elliott to his fate during the battle. It seemed Major Bankhead was one of them.
“I see you’ve started building already,” Tyler said, diplomatically changing the subject.
“Yes. We’ll have to order lumber from Dodge City for our larger buildings, but we’re using cottonwood poles, adobe and thatch to build our stables, storehouses and the guardhouse, as well as temporary barracks.”
“You’ll be interested to see our wagons when they arrive, then. Walt’s adapted some of them to carry long poles, beams and rafters for a storage barn and other big buildings.”
Bankhead sat forward eagerly. “Will they have any to spare? The Army will pay well for what we need.”
“I dunno, sir. Some are for our ranch, and others for an Ames Transport storage building. I guess you’ll have to ask the wagonmaster when he arrives.”
They moved on to discuss patrol patterns. Tyler took note of their current routes, and asked, “While you’ve been patrollin’, have you seen any good places to set up a ranch? I need a lot o’ space, enough for up to ten thousand cattle, with water and good grazin’. I was thinkin’ about someplace along the Canadian River.”
The Major pointed to a spot on the map. “You’ll do well to look at this area. I’ve been there myself on patrol. There’s a ford across the river here, a good one, the only reliable ford for twenty to thirty miles. There’s water year-round, from what we’ve been told, and the river valley offers shelter for animals from winter storms. There’s good grazing north and south of the river for quite a distance.”
“I’ll look there first, then. Thanks, Major.” There was real gratitude in Tyler’s voice. The sooner he could find the best place for his ranch, the sooner they could start erecting buildings and getting it into good working order.
As they approached the Canadian River valley, the good grazing that the Major had reported was immediately apparent. When they came to the bluffs overlooking the valley, and saw the river gleaming in the wintry sunlight below them, Tyler knew at once that he’d found an ideal place. “Look at it, boys!” he called, throwing his arms wide in excitement. “This is the new home of the Circle CAR!”
“Given enough o’ this gr
ass, and water all year round, you could graze up to ten, twelve thousand cattle around here with no trouble at all,” a scout said approvingly.
“That’s just what I plan to do,” Tyler agreed. “All right, let’s make camp down by the river, then we’re going to take a week to ride out for twenty to thirty miles in all directions, to see what we find. Make maps of what you see, and we’ll talk about it every night.”
By the end of seven days, Tyler’s choice had crystallized. “We’ll put the ranch buildings right there,” he said, pointing to a clear area below a bluff on the north side of the river, a quarter of a mile from the water and fifty feet above it. “The bluff will protect them from the icy winter winds blowin’ down from Canada, an’ they’ll be facin’ south for warmth. They’ll be far enough from the river that floods won’t bother ’em. The ford’s just half a mile to the east, so we can keep an eye on whoever uses it, and close it to them if we want to.”
“How much land will you try for, boss?” a scout asked.
“I figured at first that we’d buy a hundred thousand acres,” Tyler replied, “but now that I’ve seen the area, I want more. I think I’ll buy six miles on either side of the ford, east an’ west, reachin’ out for twelve miles north and south of the river. That’ll give us all the really good grasslands in the area. We’ll also control almost as much dry grazin’ on open range, all around our ranch property.”
“Dang, boss, that’s… lessee now… that’s nearly 300 square miles!” another scout exclaimed.