by Ben K. Green
Of course, cowboy-like, I waked up before daylight and decided I had better get out of that soft bed before I got spoiled and learned to like it and get back down to the tradin’ pens, feed my saddle horses and mules, so I would be ready to drift my stock out of town early. These old mesquite-grass steers had sure took a likin’ to that good alfalfa hay and fresh town water and had filled up and looked a whole batch better.
I got everything rigged up and tied together and turned out of the tradin’ pens after it was good sunup and started down the road toward Roscoe, which was on the main line of the Texas and Pacific Railroad. I had hoped that I might find some cattle being shipped along the Texas and Pacific and somebody might have an odd half a car where I could make a trade to ship with them to Fort Worth.
These old sore-headed steers had learned to lead real good and had quit tryin’ to fight. Up about mid-morning I began to wonder about untyin’ ’em from the little mules and let everything just graze along together. I eased up beside the little mules and talked to them and got them to stop and untied the steers’ lead ropes. These old steers had kinda learned to walk with each other since they had been tied together going on three days and nights and even thought they were draggin’ a head rope apiece and a lead rope to step on every now and then, they were grazin’ and walkin’ and gettin’ along pretty good and it seemed the little mules were enjoyin’ considerable relief from havin’ the cattle tied to them, and drivin’ the herd had settled down to nothin’ much more than grazin’ and followin’ along behind them since it was a real wide-like highway where the railroad and highway ran along together and there were good fences on both sides.
It was a little after dinnertime when we drove through Hermleigh and I stopped at a store and got some cheeze and crackers and stuff that I could eat while I rode along and keep my stock grazin’ and driftin’ along down the road.
That night I penned my stock at Wastella Switch. This had been a pretty good day’s drive for my steers and still at the same time hadn’t moved them so fast but what they were full and would bed down and rest durin’ the night. I made camp at the stock pens and nothin’ good or bad happened, and I turned out early the next morning still driftin’ south and east toward Roscoe.
I drove my stock around the back side of the stores at Roscoe and by the gin and out onto the Sweetwater highway east of town. Since I had kept them movin’ pretty good, I thought that if I just left them along the road that they would stop and graze while I rode back about half a mile to Roscoe and eat a batch of stuff.
When I got back out to my stock, I found a car stopped, my steers grazin’, and my mules standin’ over by the side of Bob against the right-of-way fence line restin’. I didn’t guess the car had been there very long and as I rode up, two well-dressed, past-middle-age-lookin’ fellers went to gettin’ out of the car and one of them said, “Do you belong to these steers?” and I said, “That’s a pretty good way of puttin’ it.”
As the man got out of the other side of the car and turned around, I recognized it to be Clint Sheppard. I had known Clint and his father about all my life since they had both been very prominent in the mule and registered jack business, and I had been seein’ Clint at the Fort Worth horse and mule market ever since I could remember.
As the conversation went, Clint was buyin’ horses for the Texas Centennial, as I already knew from Bill Taylor, and this other feller was buyin’ the cattle to be used in the Cavalcade. They had been out West hunting’, from what this man described, “picturesque” steers. I didn’t know whether that was a breed or a color but I aimed for these I had to be what he was lookin’ for. He walked around and looked at these cattle and they were so jaded and had so many ropes on them that they didn’t offer to try to get away from him or try to fight him, and it was plain to see that they were sure use to being handled, which was just what he needed in some big long-horned odd-colored steers. Of course, he had already begun to offer objections about the big brown steer that had both horns knocked off.
In the meantime, while he was lookin’ at the cattle, Clint and I had been visitin’, renewin’ old acquaintance. Clint was a nice-lookin’ feller and was always well dressed and well spoken, but he had one eye gotched’ off a little bit to the side. He was behind my horse from the fellow lookin’ at the cattle, and from some mule deals in the past, he may have thought that he owed me a little favor, and compared to him I was just a kid.
When the other man asked what I wanted for seven head, Clint winked at me with that gotched eye and said, “Ben, I guess you’ll have to sell them all together. You ain’t got no business with one steer.” I got the message pretty fast because sure enough, I didn’t need one sore-headed steer.
Well, the trade started and the other man said he couldn’t give as much for them a head if he had to take that one. I said, “Well, I will knock off a little. How would $90 round sound to you?”
Of course, I knew in my own mind that it was goin’ to sound damn high, but he didn’t know how much I could afford to take off to sell them. He acted like he was about to lose his breath and he never heard of such a price and by this time, I kinda figured out what that word meant, and I said, “Yeah, but you ain’t bought any ‘picturesque’ steers neither, have you?” Clint busted in real good and said, “No, we’ve been lookin’ for them all this trip. There’s no more cattle that are that big with as long horns and as flashy colors, and I can’t imagine where Ben found these!”
We passed a lot more conversation among us, and this fellow finally said that $75 a head was all that he would give for my cattle and I could take it or leave it. Well, I didn’t aim to leave it, so I said, “Where do you want me to put ’em? I’m goin’ to sell ’em to you.” That brought on some more talk and he decided that if I would put them in the stock pens at Sweetwater that he would pay me for them. I saw Clint smile and cut that white eye back at me as much as to say that I had made a good deal.
Sweetwater wasn’t more than about seven miles, and I perked these cattle up and drove them on in to the stock pens at Sweetwater by about five o’clock and, sure enough, he gave me a check for $600. I didn’t ask them whether they was goin’ to ship them by rail or make baloney sausage because I sure didn’t care; I was rid of them and had made money. The trip home with two saddle horses and two nice fat mules would be as enjoyable as a sightseein’ tour.
WILD COWS IN
DRIPPIN’
SPRINGS SOCIETY
DRIPPIN’ SPRINGS CANYON PASTURE is a very famous landmark in the open prairie country of West Texas. As far as the eye can see in every directtion is a big rolling Texas prairie. The prairies have a gentle slope to the south and east, and suddenly drop off into a huge canyon that is not noticeable until you are right to the brink of it. The canyon walls are steep but do have enough slope to them that the walls are covered with catclaw and live oak and small shinnery brush. At the bottom of the canyon there is a little narrow open floor that is dotted with beautiful live-oak trees. At the head of the canyon is a large hole of water fed by springs and is known as Clear Hole. All up and down the canyon for the length of it, which is about three miles, there are drippin’ springs flowing out of the rock walls that give the landmark its name. This canyon and a small amount of prairie land around the rim makes up a pasture that is owned by the village banker that could be very easily referred as “Ole Spendthrift.”
Drippin’ Springs Canyon has been the setting for many festive occasions for the little town and the range country around it. There is a huge barbecue pit and a few tables and chairs in the live-oak grove where political speakin’s, ole settlers’ reunions, Sunday-school picnics, and all kinds of school outings have been held since the Palefaces took the land away from the Indians.
Ole Spendthrift had always let on that he was a very civic-minded citizen and that ever’body was welcome to enjoy the landscape and the facilities of Drippin’ Springs Canyon. It had become the custom of the community, since there was no other beauty spot around, t
hat everything of any social nature that happened outdoors happened in Drippin’ Springs Canyon.
But here of late there had been a sad situation developing that none of the community was happy about, and Ole Spendthrift seemed to be a little disturbed. He had sold off all the cattle that could be rounded up out of Drippin’ Springs Canyon. However, there had been a remnant of wild old cows that refused to leave their haunts and had developed a hostile attitude toward the human race. These ole cows had gotten on the prod and were ready to take on any bunch of people that might think they wanted to picnic in the floor of Drippin’ Springs Canyon. They had scattered a covey of Boy Scouts up the canyon wall without any of ’em gettin’ seriously hurt. They tore up a Ladies’ Aid party, but the ole women all manged to get to their cars. These wild ole cows had just about ruined the social affairs of the community for the entire summer. Even to ruinin’ the Fourth of July political speakin’. None of this seemed to disturb Ole Spendthrift. It looked like he had decided that he’d ruther have that little bunch of ole outlaw cows than to have the good will of the community. And he’d made little or no effort to get these cows trapped or drove or by some means caught up out of the community’s playground.
Miss Effie Comstock was a very petite, precise, and ultra-refined old maid … who came West when she was a very young woman to bring culture and musical appreciation to the range country. She had pretty well aged-out on the job, but had never given up and, to be sure, she had a great deal of influence on the younger set in the community. She had started her fall music school, and by the admission of their own mothers, her young ladies’ music classes were filled with the finest flowers of young womanhood in the range country.
Us cowboys didn’t hold Miss Effie in the same high regard as the rest of the community, and the reasons were very evident. She discouraged “her young ladies” from keepin’ company with the uncouth element of the community and when she saw one of her “young ladies” in town in the company of a cowboy, she would give the cowboy about the same appraising look that a registered thoroughbred Kentucky mare would give if she suddenly saw a Spanish burro. And this failed to cause us to feel too kindly toward Miss Effie. We very respectfully referred to her as the “shrill and shriek teacher” or sometimes “Miss Cornstalk” or anything else that might come to our minds just so long as it was not profane or vulgar.
Miss Effie decided as a prelude to the fall music school that she and her “young ladies” this particular Sunday afternoon would take basket lunches and drive out to the live-oak grove in the bottom of Drippin’ Springs Canyon and gaze upon the colors that nature’s paintbrush had splashed over the countryside. She and the girls had spread their picnic lunch and were carrying on all the feminine niceties that they should show towards each other for the benefit of Miss Effie. Some of these wild old longhorn brindle cows that had not received proper invitation to the outing took direct offense to havin’ been left out, and as they started to Clear Hole to get a drink of water decided to mix and mingle with these fair damsels.
Well the screech-and-scream class really went into action! These ole gals bawled about twice and made a head-on run for the crowd. If rodeo cowboys think they invented jumpin’ in barrels, they are mistaken. Miss Effie rose and lit in the trash barrel, and all the flowers of young womanhood scooted up these live-oak trees faster than any school of squirrels could’ve ever thought of. One ole cow hit the barrel Miss Effie was in and jarred a stave loose, and that jarred some staves that Miss Effie had on I Miss Effie reached high “C” in such voice that it boogered the ole cow, and she took to the brush without gettin’ a drink of water. Another longhorn ole cow grabbed that checked tablecloth and garnished the landscape with tuna-fish sandwiches, deviled eggs, and ladyfinger cookies.
This four or five head of cows had decided that they’d delivered a sufficient welcome and drifted on back up into the canyon.
So Miss Effie’s “shriek and shrill” girls came down out of the trees and got Miss Effie out of the trash barrel and hastily departed, leaving little patches of bloomer material of various colors on the snags of that live-oak thicket, clear to the topmost limbs!
On Sunday night if a cowboy got a date with one of the village belles, ya had to go to church. At least for a little while!
I was settin’ over in a dark corner with the rest of the young blades, and as the music was about to start and Miss Effie had struck a chord on the organ, Ole Spendthrift and Mrs. Spendthrift made their entrance and set down in their favorite pew about halfway down the aisle from the front to the back.
After the usual amount of singin’ and prayin’ the preacher got up, and before he read from the Holy Word, he had a very stern statement to make about the horrible experience that the young ladies and Miss Effie had been subjected to by the uncontrollable brutes in Drippin’ Springs Canyon. He elaborated in very sanctified tones on the ill state of affairs in a community when any decent member of society would keep wild cattle that were a threat to the life and limb of the young people who so much wished to enjoy the wonders of the great outdoors where they could enjoy God’s handiwork.
Ole Spendthrift set there and turned pink. I was settin’ to his back a good way, but I could see red run around the top of that white collar.
No sooner than the preacher said “Amen” than half the mothers of the town made to Ole Spendthrift’s pew and went to givin’ him large pieces of their minds about the danger that he was heapin’ onto their children. You could sure see him flinch, his voice got low and scrapy, he brought out a spotless handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his brow as he tried to give them ever’ assurance that these cows would be gotten out of Drippin’ Springs Canyon. Up until now, he claimed that he didn’t realize that they had actually been a threat to the social activities of the community … but ever’body knew that wasn’t the truth.
As I started out at the church door with my gal, he called my name in a very dignified voice, and I stopped and waited for him to walk back to where we were standin’. In the most apologetic tone of voice he asked me could I come by the bank in the morning. Well, for once my bankin’ business was in pretty good shape, so I told him I’d be by when I came to town.
I tied my horse in the side street the next morning. As I came around the corner of the bank, Ole Spendthrift was lookin’ out of the winder watchin’ for me. He motioned for me to come in. We set down at his desk; he had one of those nice, big armchairs pulled up in the right place for me. He started out with some very light conversation about my cow business and my horses and things that I knew he wasn’t interested in, and directly he came to the point.
He said, “Ben, what would you pay me for those cows in Drippin’ Springs Canyon, range delivery?”
I set and looked at him a few minutes and said, “Nothin’!”
This was a rare occasion for me. I had money in the bank to run me through the winter, my grass leases were paid, I had plenty of good horses, and lots of feed laid in—it was rather unusual for me to be in this good a financial condition. And l’as talkin’ to a banker that had some of his business in worse shape than mine, namely, them wild cows in Drippin’ Springs Canyon. Most all the workin’ cowboys in the community had steady jobs or steady wives (when cowboys marry these young things they promise them that they will “quit doin’ ” lots of things—bronc horses and bad cattle are generally the first two) or some other legitimate excuse for not botherin’ with that bunch of ole wild cows. So I wasn’t afraid of this deal gettin’ away from me, and I thought I’d just make it as hard on Ole Spendthrift as I could, which was the way he usually did it to me.
He said, “Now, Ben, you know those cows are worth $50 a head and there’s about twenty head of ’em and half of ’em have calves big enough to wean, and I know that you’ve got the time to catch these cattle and get ’em out of that pasture and I want it done to get Miss Effie and the preacher and the rest of the womenfolk in the community, includin’ my own wife, off of my back, so I’ll ask you again what
would you give for my cows, range delivery?”
I told him that I hadn’t planned on spendin’ the winter fightin’ a bunch of damned ole wild cows and if he would agree to give me a lease on the pasture, until April 1, I would agree to give him a note for the cows at a price, but that I wasn’t takin’ money out of the bank to spend for cows, range delivery, in the wintertime.
He knew this all made good sense and I could see that a lot of the starch was gone out of his conversation. He had his mouth puckered up like a sheep that had just eat a bitter acorn and he’as scratchin’ his jaw, tryin to figger out how to protec’ his interest.
He finally broke the silence by askin’ what that figure per head would be. I got off the subject by askin’ him about the colts on three ole wild mares that was in the pasture. He said that he didn’t know how the mares come to have colts, that to his certain knowledge there hadn’t been a stud in that pasture in several years (what he didn’t know was that to my certain knowledge I had turned a stud in the pasture the year before and left him long enough to be sure the mares were bred … figurin’ on buyin’ the colts at the right time, and this was it), and that he didn’t think the colts was worth much money; if I wanted to try to catch ’em he’d sell ’em to me in the deal. And he came back to askin’ me how much per head I’d give for the cows.
I finally straightened up in the chair, stiffened my neck, and cleared my voice and sounded just as hard as anybody’s banker when I said, “I’ll give $25 a head for the cows and $10 a head for the calves and colts and any other cattle that’s in the pasture.” (He didn’t know it, but there was two or three yearlings left in there from last year’s calf crop.)