by Mari Sandoz
Almost anyone could have a new brand recorded and some were deliberately planned to cover neighboring brand marks, as for instance, a UB could be burned over a lot of such letters and figures, single or in combination, as U, J, I, B, P, and 3, the number increased by a bar under the UB with, say, a B under that. To cover more difficult brands, those with twists, an S could become an 8, a chain, a clover leaf, or half-a-dozen other marks. With a little herd of mixed stock, old and young, legally owned and branded, a man could work up a very fast increase with a long rope and a hot saddle ring in some far canyon or in the far night. One of the most difficult brands to change was John Chisum's Fence Rail, a single bar that ran almost the entire length of a cow's side. But he ranged his stock in rustlers country and when his herd was delivered to Hunter and Evans on the Niobrara River, up in Nebraska, the trail crew included, along with some of the best cowhands of the West, some who turned out professional rustlers.
The northern associations scattered detectives over the range to watch newcomers, those with small herds particularly, even making plants to get rid of them, many claimed. In spite of them, cattle rustling without much trouble over brand blotting grew up, the stock moved down the wilder rivers, with stations at hidden box canyons and dugouts provided for both the men and the horses. Such cattle went to butchers, feed lots, into southern herds headed for Indian contracts, and as seed stock for new ranchers far from the brand registry.
Horse thieves worked the same way. The Texan who called himself Doc Middleton and was said by some to be the Jim Riley of the Newton, Kansas, massacre stole Indian ponies, ranch horses, and even the racing stock so prized in the cattle country. Apparently he worked Montana and Wyoming for horses to sell in eastern Nebraska and in Iowa and headed those he and his gang stole there up along the river to the ranch country. He invaded the settled Platte regions, stole race horses practically off the tracks, and camped every- where, even with the Olives. Always a gentleman, he never stole from a host unless pushed to it to get away, and then he usually sent back as good as he took, or better.
The Wyoming Stock Growers Association hired brand inspectors to watch at the railroad loading stations, at the Indian agencies, and in the packing centers. All cattle bearing brands of those they called rustlers, and all brands unknown, meaning not of members, were treated as mavericks and seized without legal procedure. This gave the Association absolute power not only over the Wyoming cattle industry but over anyone wanting to move into the vast regions that the cattlemen claimed as their range, mostly government land, public domain, legally open to any bona-fide homesteader's entry. Yet every cow or horse of the settler could be taken up and sold as a maverick, the proceeds going into the Association's coffers, without any effective recourse.
Such power grabbing brought opposition not only from settlers and small ranchers but from the business people dependent upon them. As settlement moved westward the border law-enforcement officers often turned toward the bulk of the voters. Suspected rustlers brought to court might very well be turned loose in spite of overwhelming evidence because the cattle barons had grabbed such absolute power in every other way.
Those cowmen who had approved Print Olive's burning of the settlers as a good example got a little uneasy as more stories spread. Even after the burning of Mitchell and Ketchum was reported to the authorities, the men were left out in Devil's Gap several days, until Mitchell, on the ground, was gnawed by the coyotes, so strong was the fear of the Olives. Finally Print, sensing the feeling against him, seems to have given a poor dim-witted man $20 to go out and bury the bodies. He dug a shallow grave in the frozen ground but the bodies couldn't be fitted into it, even after chopping off an arm and a leg. So he threw them on top and scraped leaves and dirt over them. Finally several men, led by a Union veteran, went out from Loup City, dug up the settlers, and after photographing the bodies, took them to Kearney for decent burial.
This was the story that sifted through the whole cattle country, and still no arrests were made. Print Olive still stalked from bar to bar in his town of Plum Creek, threw back his buffalo saddle coat, hitched his worn holster around a little, and reached for the bottle the bartender set out. To any remark he might overhear he roared that there weren't enough men in the whole goddamn state of Nebraska to take him.
"Looks like he's right," one of the men who had hung back from drinking Print's liquor finally admitted. So he had to move to the bar, too, but let the whisky slop to the sawdust. Not even the Ketchum brothers had been seen since they came for Ami's body. They had been bragged up as crack shots but somehow their aim seemed to wobble before an Olive.
There were stories that Print was making plans for expansion, for a Platte River kingdom. This was the region for him, he shouted out one night against several men who stood away from his liquor. Texas might drive him out but a man with guts could make himself king of all the yellow-belly Yankees. The Plum Creekers, the settlers, and the ranchers of all the region kept quiet and as the days and weeks passed, they began to pull to I. P. Olive's side, or quit the country.
Then a rumor got out that Mrs. Olive wanted to leave, didn't want her young son Bill brought up in such violence. "Violence, hell!" one of the settlers from the Loup snorted when he heard this. "That kid's already pulled his gun on a dozen men around here. Only the reputation of the outfit's kept him alive."
It seemed, too, that Mrs. Olive couldn't bear the newspapers with their denunciations of her husband, the demands that the governor act against the murderers, the looks she got in the stores and on the street. No matter how carefully her carriage was watched, every time she came out there were the chalk words scribbled on the side: MAN BURNERS.
Then there was a rumor that she and the younger children were packed to leave the next Sunday, maybe Print going, too, and taking his lawless gang along. Perhaps Phil DuFran, who had brought the settlers to Print, would join them, better join them, some said. And Sheriff Gillan from over in Keith County who had collected the $700 for delivering Mitchell and Ketchum, too.
Although neither the governor nor any county official acted, the frontier's energetic Judge Gaslin had been working quietly. He found that every possible witness had been warned that the talking tongue would be cut out at the root. Warrants issued for the arrest of the Olive gang were refused by two sheriffs who said they were not ready to die. But there were a few men ready to go through hell to see Print Olive locked up. They were deputized and with a few more willing to risk their lives, Judge Gaslin headed for Plum Creek.
The men scattered casually into town, stopping for a little business here and there. After the mail train came through, Print Olive went to the post office, the waiting crowd parting to let him through. Someone introduced two strangers to him.
"The Ketchum boys, Print. You know, brothers of Ami—"
Olive growled something, his hand hooked over his holster, and waited for the men to flee from his angry face. But they didn't. With one on each side of him they put him under arrest and before the astonished eyes of the crowd snapped handcuffs on him. In the meantime out on the street somebody picked up Fred Fisher, Olive's foreman, and a few more of the gang.
By then a crowd, a mob, was pushing up around the men. "Get a rope!" somebody yelled back toward his horse and a dozen coiled lariats were handed in over the shoulders of the pushing mob, the owners calling out, "Here! Here! String 'em up!"
But one of the arresting deputies elbowed in to face the leaders. He spoke quietly, so quietly that the mob had to silence itself to hear. He said he had taken an oath to protect the prisoners and he would do it with his dead body. He handed Print a pistol. "Shoot the first man who lays a hand on you," he ordered.
To the angry roar of the crowd, the yells of "Sell-out! Sell-out!" the deputy held up his hand for silence. "This man killed my brother, Ami Ketchum. If the law fails to punish him, then it's time enough for us and I'll do it my own way."
By dawn the two Ketchums and Sam Snow, stepson of the dead Mitchell a
nd brother of Tamar, and their posse had twelve of the Olive gang, including Phil DuFran and Sheriff Gillan. The last man they took was the keeper of the hotel and saloon where the Olives hung out. Then they were taken away, chained in pairs, and all without a shot fired by the man who a few hours earlier had seen himself king of the whole Platte country.
"Sure caved in easy," some Nebraskans said.
There were, however, some Texans around who had seen Print Olive in the hands of the law for murder before, but none had ever seen him serve a day for any killing.
Still Olive and eight others were indicted for murder of Mitchell, taken up first as the older, the family man. It was done despite the rumors that Print had a standing offer of $1,000 out for any and all men drawn on the jury who voted against indictment. There were threats against the attorney general's life, too, and Judge Gaslin's. Nobody expected the judge to take this seriously, not the judge who had learned to lay two loaded six-shooters out before him when he opened court, to see that there would be no gun play. He was doing this back when Print. Olive still shot Mexicans and Negroes down in Texas.
Olive, Fisher, and two more of the gang were taken to the pen at Lincoln for safety. Brown, who was one of Olive's trusted hands, and the affable Phil DuFran had turned state's evidence. Sheriff Gillan certainly "criminally connected with the affair," as the newspapers put it, was unwilling to take up quarters with his fellow prisoners, suddenly mighty holy, it seemed.
The trial came up in the April term at Hastings, considered a little safer because farther from the crime and the Olive gang. But there were threats of a great mob of Print's cowboys coming to raid the court, burn the town to ashes. Many were afraid, for a man burner is a man burner. The sheriff petitioned the governor for protection. A company of troops pitched their tents opposite the courthouse and stayed.
There was suddenly a great deal of money loose in the country, particularly among those who might be witnesses, money from the Olives and from ranch acquaintances and connections. Some said that included the fine old Texas cowmen, the Snyders, somehow connected with the Olives left in the South.
Print's parents came up from Texas and at first none could believe that this I.P. of the violence, the whisky, the foul mouth, the ruthless brutal killer and defiler of men could be the son of such a gentle and religious old couple. Then they heard the mother speak of the goodness of "my boy, Prentice," always "my boy," as though he were still at her breast, as though she were still hiding his childish little naughtinesses from his father. "My boy, my poor baby," she murmured into her lace handkerchief, with no eyes for his brother Ira or even Marion, the youngest.
Two of Print's hands weakened and told of a plot to shoot Judge Gaslin and Attorney Dilworth during the trial, and added that I.P. said he had no fear of such proceedings. He had attended a dozen such weddings.
"Meaning killings?"
"Yes."
Olive and Fisher were found guilty and went to the pen, with high praise for Judge Gaslin from all but three newspapers of the whole state. Steps were taken immediately for a new trial. The case hadn't been tried in the jurisdiction of the crime—the new Custer County, which by an oversight of the legislature, was attached to no judicial district and so had no district court. A thick file of documents, including some shockingly revealing depositions, was presented to the state supreme court for a change of venue. The change was granted and one of the attorneys who got the decision was said to have received the 10,000 head of three-year-old Olive steers sold for him on the block at Hastings. "No telling what the others involved got," was the bitter comment, one way or another, over much of the state.
In the meantime the local lawyers of Olive and Fisher had been driving and riding over the entire region giving many people a choice of a roll of bills or the threat of a tongue cut out. When the rehearing came up in Custer County, in the only court that existed there, the county court, no complaint was found on the docket and no complaining witnesses came forward. The already celebrating cowboys roared and fired bullets into the ceiling of the courtroom, it was said, and Judge Boblits rose and announced, "Prisoners, get the hell out of here. It is time for another drink—on I. P. Olive and Fred Fisher."
Some said it was also time for Judge Boblits to add a good-sized herd of fine range cattle to his ranch, but then it was a good buying season. Anyway, on December 17, 1880, the court ordered "that the prisoners be discharged until further proceedings can be had." The case of Print Olive and Fred Fisher was never closed.
But I. P. Olive, said to be the wealthiest individual cattleman in Nebraska two years before, was now reported stripped of at least $250,000 in gold and property, with perhaps as much more added by others. "State supreme courts come a little high sometimes," Judge Gaslin was reported to have said. Perhaps they should have used the ropes offered them the evening they got the Olive outfit arrested.
Print, his family, and most of his ranch hands except the hated state's evidencers left for Kansas. Attorney Dilworth, marked for death by an Olive bullet, later became state attorney general but by then only Ira Olive was left in Nebraska, Ira who managed himself judiciously now, so much a good neighbor that when he needed any help it came as to any other, as though he had been orphaned, without sibling, without brother.
Down in Kansas Print Olive had joined with other cattlemen, pushed himself, some said, into a cattle pool in the region north of Dodge City and tried to recoup his herds and money any way he could. Perhaps he was right; perhaps the day of the lone hand in the cattle business was past.
CHAPTER II
THE BONANZA
THE COW learned to survive the Ice Age around man, who, unable to grow fur for his protection, took it from other creatures. Unable to lay up fat or flesh enough to carry him through famines or the winter as the bear did and the hedgehog, man took these, too, from the animals which could convert the grass he could not utilize. Unwilling to depend upon the uncertain chase, he tamed such animals as he could—living commissaries handy to his stone knife.
The cow, in her tolerant way, accepted all this. More, she probably hunted out man's habitation in time of deep and enduring snow, smelled out his seed caches when forage failed, and hugged up close to the caves and shelters he had appropriated or built up.
So the cow became the companion of man in his far wanderings, often the center of his existence. In all his really great treks over the earth she walked calmly beside him, perhaps bearing his burdens, drawing his wheel, sharing his triumph in fertile regions as well as his vicissitudes in famine, snow, and the devastations of war. Yet never had she been involved in such a vast man-made calamity as the depression that came sweeping out of the East in the 1870's, when drovers who had put their last cent of money and credit into great herds, trailed them perhaps a thousand miles or more to market, only to find the desperate bawling of 100,000 of hungry, unsold cattle and the angry, dark-faced trail crews demanding their pay.
In the East, in addition to the unsalable stock that reached there, great trains of cattle cars stood idle on sidings, stockyards and expanding feed lots bare and dry, the spreading cornfields to finish beeves heavy with drooping ears not worth the husking peg. To everyone involved it was a great loss but often to the cattleman it was a personal sorrow, for to him the cow was much more than a way of making a living.
Then in 1877 the price of beef had crept back past $2.25 a hundred on the hoof; by 1882 past $9. Part of this rise came out of the experimentation of the hard years. Some enterprising Yankee trail drivers and traders had dressed and stored the beef that they managed to get as far as the packinghouses and shipped it as they could, to large buyers of the East for what they would pay. In October, 1875, an initial shipment of 36,000 pounds of beef refrigerated by the new Bates Process was sent to England. Within a year the amount rose to 3,000,000 pounds a month; by the end of 1881 to 110,000,000 pounds a year—enough to break the market for British growers of beef and mutton, even without one head of the many live cattle shipped over.
A cry against diseased, "sick," American meat went up, with an itch to invest in those far ranges and herds that could produce beef so cheaply.
There had been some earlier investigation of the American prairies and the reports of the British buffalo hunters but it all was too incredible, certainly more of that western exaggeration, more western tall tales. But by 1879 news of the vast Capitol Lands Reservation in Texas reached England and Parliament sent two members to look around. They returned bug-eyed from this empire of grass. Their report started the British invasion, from the Panhandle up the Plains to Canada.
At the beginning of 1881 the Liverpool edition of the Drovers Journal reported on western cattle, generally Short-horn blood on Texas cows, into Chicago from the Wyoming and Nebraska ranches by way of the corn regions, and in very good condition. As with animals partly wild, the meat often dressed out in high color, sweet and sound. Many would, however, be condemned as unfit for human consumption in England and most were not heavy enough, where cattle sold per head, not by weight.
This wasn't too encouraging, particularly for those who knew that the Chicago correspondent spoke of improved cattle, not the chute-run of Longhorns. But there was the Scottish-American Mortgage Company that had provided the sterling to rebuild fire-gutted Chicago in the panic year of 1873. The money was borrowed at low interest in Scotland and loaned at around double the per cent. The stockholders had received annual dividends up to 15 per cent. When investment in American ranches came up, this high return, with the fast money some Britishers had made as hide hunters, particularly in the fabulous Texas, whetted many a hunger. That some of the buffalo hunters had been scalped by Indians only added a bit of adventure on top of the romance of the cowboy. Money sprinkled with adventure and romance was irresistible.