In gala spirits we broke camp the next morning.The herd had left the bed-ground at dawn, and as the outfit rode away to relieve the last guard, every mother's son was singing.The cattle were a refreshing sight as they grazed forward, their ragged front covering half a mile in width.The rest of the past few days had been a boon to the few tender-footed ones.The lay-over had rejuvenated both man and beast.From maps in our possession we knew we were somewhere near the western border of the Chickasaw Nation, while on our left was the reservation of three blanket tribes of Indians.But as far as signs of occupancy were concerned, the country was unmarked by any evidence of civilization.The Chisholm Cattle Trail, which ran from Red River to the Kansas line, had almost fallen into disuse, owing to encroachments of settlements south of the former and westward on the latter.With the advancement of immigration, Abilene and Ellsworth as trail terminals yielded to the tide, and the leading cattle trace of the '70's was relegated to local use in '84.
The first guard was on the qui vive for the outfit whose camp-fire they had sighted the night before.I was riding with Clay Zilligan on the left point, when he sighted what we supposed was a small bunch of cattle lying down several miles distant.
When we reached the first rise of ground, a band of saddle horses came in view, and while we were trying to locate their camp, Jack Splann from the opposite point attracted our attention and pointed straight ahead.There a large band of cattle under herd greeted our view, compelling us to veer to the right and intersect the trail sooner than we intended.Keeping a clear half-mile between us, we passed them within an hour and exchanged the compliments of the trail.They proved to be "Laurel Leaf" and " Running W" cattle, the very ones for which the International Railway agent at the meeting in February had so boastfully shown my employer the application for ears.The foreman was cursing like a stranded pirate over the predicament in which he found himself.He had left Santo Gertrudo Ranch over a month before with a herd of three thousand straight two-year-old steers.But in the shipment of some thirty-three thousand cattle from the two ranches to Wichita Falls, six trains had been wrecked, two of which were his own.Instead of being hundreds of miles ahead in the lead of the year's drive, as he expected, he now found himself in charge of a camp of cripples.What few trains belonging to his herd had escaped the ditch were used in filling up other unfortunate ones, the injured cattle from the other wrecks forming his present holdings.
"Our people were anxious to get their cattle on to the market early this year," said he, "and put their foot into it up to the knee.Shipping to Red River was an experiment with them, and Ihope they've got their belly full.We've got dead and dying cattle in every pasture from the falls to the river, while these in sight aren't able to keep out of the stench of those that croaked between here and the ford.Oh, this shipping is a fine thing--for the railroads.Here I've got to rot all summer with these cattle, just because two of my trains went into the ditch while no other foreman had over one wrecked.And mind you, they paid the freight in advance, and now King and Kennedy have brought suit for damages amounting to double the shipping expense.They'll get it all right--in pork.I'd rather have a claim against a nigger than a railroad company.Look at your beeves, slick as weasels, and from the Nueces River.Have to hold them in, I reckon, to keep from making twenty miles a day.And here I am--Oh, hell, I'd rather be on a rock-pile with a ball and chain to my foot! Do you see those objects across yonder about two miles--in that old grass? That's where we bedded night before last and forty odd died.We only lost twenty-two last night.Oh, we're getting in shape fast.If you think you can hold your breakfast down, just take a ride through mine.No, excuse me--I've seen them too often already."
Several of the boys and myself rode into the herd some little distance, but the sight was enough to turn a copper-lined stomach.Scarcely an animal had escaped without more or less injury.Fully one half were minus one or both horns, leaving instead bloody stumps.Broken bones and open sores greeted us on every hand; myriads of flies added to the misery of the cattle, while in many instances there was evidence of maggots at work on the living animal.Turning from the herd in disgust, we went back to our own, thankful that the rate offered us had been prohibitory.The trials and vexatious of the road were mere nothings to be endured, compared to the sights we were then leaving.Even what we first supposed were cattle lying down, were only bed-grounds, the occupants having been humanely relieved by unwaking sleep.Powerless to render any assistance, we trailed away, glad to blot from our sight and memory such scenes of misery and death.
Until reaching the Washita River, we passed through a delightful country.There were numerous local trails coming into the main one, all of which showed recent use.Abandoned camp-fires and bed-grounds were to be seen on every hand, silent witnesses of an exodus which was to mark the maximum year in the history of the cattle movement from Texas.Several times we saw some evidence of settlement by the natives, but as to the freedom of the country, we were monarchs of all we surveyed.On arriving at the Washita, we encountered a number of herds, laboring under the impression that they were water-bound.Immediate entrance at the ford was held by a large herd of young cattle in charge of a negro outfit.
