He talked to the horses; he sang songs; he played Injun; and that Christmas was a merry one, for the debt was paid and our little widow had beef to throw to the dogs.I never saw her again, but wherever she is to-night, if my prayer counts, may God bless her!"Early in the evening I had warned my boys that we would start on our return at ten o'clock.The hour was nearly at hand, and in reply to my inquiry if our portion of the beef had been secured, Jack Splann said that he had cut off half a loin, a side of ribs, and enough steak for breakfast.Splann and I tied the beef to our cantle-strings, and when we returned to the group, Sponsilier was telling of the stampede of his herd in the Panhandle about a month before."But that run wasn't a circumstance to one in which I figured once, and in broad daylight," concluded Dave.It required no encouragement to get the story; all we had to do was to give him time to collect his thoughts.
"Yes, it was in the summer of '73," he finally continued."It was my first trip over the trail, and I naturally fell into position at the drag end of the herd.I was a green boy of about eighteen at the time, having never before been fifty miles from the ranch where I was born.The herd belonged to Major Hood, and our destination was Ellsworth, Kansas.In those days they generally worked oxen to the chuck-wagons, as they were ready sale in the upper country, and in good demand for breaking prairie.I reckon there must have been a dozen yoke of work-steers in our herd that year, and they were more trouble to me than all the balance of the cattle, for they were slothful and sinfully lazy.My vocabulary of profanity was worn to a frazzle before we were out a week, and those oxen didn't pay any more attention to a rope or myself than to the buzzing of a gnat.
"There was one big roan ox, called Turk, which we worked to the wagon occasionally, but in crossing the Arbuckle Mountains in the Indian Territory, he got tender-footed.Another yoke was substituted, and in a few days Turk was on his feet again.But he was a cunning rascal and had learned to soldier, and while his feet were sore, I favored him with sandy trails and gave him his own time.In fact, most of my duties were driving that one ox, while the other boys handled the herd.When his feet got well--Ihad toadied and babied him so--he was plum ruined.I begged the foreman to put him back in the chuck team, but the cook kicked on account of his well-known laziness, so Turk and I continued to adorn the rear of the column.I reckon the foreman thought it better to have Turk and me late than no dinner.I tried a hundred different schemes to instill ambition and self-respect into that ox, but he was an old dog and contented with his evil ways.
"Several weeks passed, and Turk and I became a standing joke with the outfit.One morning I made the discovery that he was afraid of a slicker.For just about a full half day, I had the best of him, and several times he was out of sight in the main body of the herd.But he always dropped to the rear, and finally the slicker lost its charm to move him.In fact he rather enjoyed having me fan him with it--it seemed to cool him.It was the middle of the afternoon, and Turk had dropped about a quarter-mile to the rear, while I was riding along beside and throwing the slicker over him like a blanket.I was letting him carry it, and he seemed to be enjoying himself, switching his tail in appreciation, when the matted brush of his tail noosed itself over one of the riveted buttons on the slicker.The next switch brought the yellow 'fish ' bumping on his heels, and emitting a blood-curdling bellow, he curved his tail and started for the herd.Just for a minute it tickled me to see old Turk getting such a wiggle on him, but the next moment my mirth turned to seriousness, and I tried to cut him off from the other cattle, but he beat me, bellowing bloody murder.The slicker was sailing like a kite, and the rear cattle took fright and began bawling as if they had struck a fresh scent of blood.The scare flashed through the herd from rear to point, and hell began popping right then and there.The air filled with dust and the earth trembled with the running cattle.Not knowing which way to turn, I stayed right where I was--in the rear.As the dust lifted, I followed up, and about a mile ahead picked up my slicker, and shortly afterward found old Turk, grazing contentedly.With every man in the saddle, that herd ran seven miles and was only turned by the Cimarron River.It was nearly dark when I and the roan ox overtook the cattle.Fortunately none of the swing-men had seen the cause of the stampede, and I attributed it to fresh blood, which the outfit believed.My verdant innocence saved my scalp that time, but years afterward I nearly lost it when I admitted to my old foreman what had caused the stampede that afternoon.
But I was a trail boss then and had learned my lesson."The Rebel, who was encamped several miles up the creek, summoned his men, and we all arose and scattered after our horses.There was quite a cavalcade going our way, and as we halted within the light of the fires for the different outfits to gather, Flood rode up, and calling Forrest, said: "In the absence of any word from old man Don, we might as well all pull out in the morning.
More than likely we'll hear from him at Grinnell, and until we reach the railroad, the Buford herds had better take the lead.
I'll drag along in the rear, and if there's another move made from Dodge, you will have warning.Now, that's about all, except to give your cattle plenty of time; don't hurry.S'long, fellows."
