Talk's cheap, but it takes money to buy whiskey.Lots of these men are new ones at the business and may lose fortunes.The banks are getting afraid of cattle paper, and conditions are tightening.With the increased drive this year, if the summer passes without a slaughter in prices, the Texas drovers can thank their lucky stars.I'm not half as bright as I might be, but this is one year that I'm smooth enough not to have unsold cattle on the trail."The herd had started an hour before, and when the wagon was ready to move, I rode a short distance with my employer.It was possible that he had something to say of a confidential nature, for it was seldom that he acted so discouraged when his every interest seemed protected by contracts.But at the final parting, when we both had dismounted and sat on the ground for an hour, he had disclosed nothing.On the contrary, he even admitted that possibly it was for the best that the other Buford herds had held a westward course and thus avoided the crush on the main routes.
The only intimation which escaped him was when we had remounted and each started our way, he called me back and said, "Tom, no doubt but you've noticed that I'm worried.Well, I am.I'd tell you in a minute, but I may be wrong in the matter.But I'll know before you reach Dodge, and then, if it's necessary, you shall know all.It's nothing about the handling of the herds, for my foremen have always considered my interests first.Keep this to yourself, for it may prove a nightmare.But if it should prove true, then we must stand together.Now, that's all; mum's the word until we meet.Drop me a line if you get a chance, and don't let my troubles worry you.
While overtaking the herd, I mused over my employer's last words.
But my brain was too muddy even to attempt to solve the riddle.
The most plausible theory that I could advance was that some friendly cowmen were playing a joke on him, and that the old man had taken things too seriously.Within a week the matter was entirely forgotten, crowded out of mind by the demands of the hour.The next night, on the Clear Fork of the Brazos, a stranger, attracted by our camp-fire, rode up to the wagon.
Returning from the herd shortly after his arrival, I recognized in our guest John Blocker, a prominent drover.He informed us that he and his associates had fifty-two thousand cattle on the trail, and that he was just returning from overtaking two of their five lead herds.Knowing that he was a well-posted cowman on routes and sustenance, having grown up on the trail, I gave him the best our camp afforded, and in return I received valuable information in regard to the country between our present location and Doan's Crossing.He reported the country for a hundred miles south of Red River as having had a dry, backward spring, scanty of grass, and with long dry drives; and further, that in many instances water for the herds would have to be bought from those in control.
The outlook was not to my liking.The next morning when Iinquired of our guest what he would advise me to do, his answer clearly covered the ground."Well, I'm not advising any one,"said he, "but you can draw your own conclusions.The two herds of mine, which I overtook, have orders to turn northeast and cross into the Nations at Red River Station.My other cattle, still below, will all be routed by way of Fort Griffin.Once across Red River, you will have the Chisholm Trail, running through civilized tribes, and free from all annoyance of blanket Indians.
South of the river the grass is bound to be better than on the western route, and if we have to buy water, we'll have the advantage of competition."With this summary of the situation, a decision was easily reached.The Chisholm Trail was good enough for me.Following up the north side of the Clear Fork, we passed about twenty miles to the west of Fort Griffin.Constantly bearing east by north, a few days later we crossed the main Brazos at a low stage of water.
But from there to Red River was a trial not to be repeated.Wire fences halted us at every turn.Owners of pastures refused permission to pass through.Lanes ran in the wrong direction, and open country for pasturage was scarce.What we dreaded most, lack of drink for the herd, was the least of our troubles, necessity requiring its purchase only three or four times.And like a climax to a week of sore trials, when we were in sight of Red River a sand and dust storm struck us, blinding both men and herd for hours.The beeves fared best, for with lowered heads they turned their backs to the howling gale, while the horsemen caught it on every side.The cattle drifted at will in an uncontrollable mass.The air was so filled with sifting sand and eddying dust that it was impossible to see a mounted man at a distance of fifty yards.The wind blew a hurricane, making it impossible to dismount in the face of it.Our horses trembled with fear, unsteady on their feet.The very sky overhead darkened as if night was falling.Two thirds of the men threw themselves in the lead of the beeves, firing six-shooters to check them, which could not even be heard by the ones on the flank and in the rear.
Once the herd drifted against a wire fence, leveled it down and moved on, sullen but irresistible.Towards evening the storm abated, and half the outfit was sent out in search of the wagon, which was finally found about dark some four miles distant.
That night Owen Ubery, as he bathed his bloodshot eyes in a pail of water, said to the rest of us: "Fellows, if ever I have a boy, and tell him how his pa suffered this afternoon, and he don't cry, I'll cut a switch and whip him until he does."
