Published by Good Press, 2019

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      EAN 4057664145598

Table of Contents

       THE LOG OF A COWBOY

       CHAPTER I

       CHAPTER II

       CHAPTER III

       CHAPTER IV

       CHAPTER V

       CHAPTER VI

       CHAPTER VII

       CHAPTER VIII

       CHAPTER IX

       CHAPTER X

       CHAPTER XI

       CHAPTER XII

       CHAPTER XIII

       CHAPTER XIV

       CHAPTER XV

       CHAPTER XVI

       CHAPTER XVII

       CHAPTER XVIII

       CHAPTER XIX

       CHAPTER XX

       CHAPTER XXI

       CHAPTER XXII

       CHAPTER XXIII

       CHAPTER XXIV

      CHAP.

      I. UP THE TRAIL

      II. RECEIVING

      III. THE START

      IV. THE ATASCOSA

      V. A DRY DRIVE

      VI. A REMINISCENT NIGHT

      VII. THE COLORADO

      VIII. ON THE BRAZOS AND WICHITA

      IX. DOAN'S CROSSING

      X. NO MAN'S LAND

      XI. A BOGGY FORD

      XII. THE NORTH FORK

      XIII. DODGE

      XIV. SLAUGHTER'S BRIDGE

      XV. THE BEAVER

      XVI. THE REPUBLICAN

      XVII. OGALALLA

      XVIII. THE NORTH PLATTE

      XIX. FORTY ISLANDS FORD

      XX. A MOONLIGHT DRIVE

      XXI. THE YELLOWSTONE

      XXII. OUR LAST CAMP-FIRE

      XXIII. DELIVERY

      XXIV. BACK TO TEXAS

      THE LOG OF A COWBOY

       Table of Contents

CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

      UP THE TRAIL

      Just why my father moved, at the close of the civil war, from Georgia to Texas, is to this good hour a mystery to me. While we did not exactly belong to the poor whites, we classed with them in poverty, being renters; but I am inclined to think my parents were intellectually superior to that common type of the South. Both were foreign born, my mother being Scotch and my father a north of Ireland man—as I remember him, now, impulsive, hasty in action, and slow to confess a fault. It was his impulsiveness that led him to volunteer and serve four years in the Confederate army—trying years to my mother, with a brood of seven children to feed, garb, and house. The war brought me my initiation as a cowboy, of which I have now, after the long lapse of years, the greater portion of which were spent with cattle, a distinct recollection. Sherman's army, in its march to the sea, passed through our county, devastating that section for miles in its passing.

      Foraging parties scoured the country on either side of its path. My mother had warning in time and set her house in order. Our work stock consisted of two yoke of oxen, while our cattle numbered three cows, and for saving them from the foragers credit must be given to my mother's generalship. There was a wild canebrake, in which the cattle fed, several hundred acres in extent, about a mile from our little farm, and it was necessary to bell them in order to locate them when wanted. But the cows were in the habit of coming up to be milked, and a soldier can hear a bell as well as any one. I was a lad of eight at the time, and while my two older brothers worked our few fields, I was sent into the canebrake to herd the cattle. We had removed the bells from the oxen and cows, but one ox was belled after darkness each evening, to be unbelled again at daybreak. I always carried the bell with me, stuffed with grass, in order to have it at hand when wanted.

      During the first few days of the raid, a number of mounted foraging parties passed our house, but its poverty was all too apparent, and nothing was molested. Several of these parties were driving herds of cattle and work stock of every description, while by day and by night gins and plantation houses were being given to the flames. Our one-roomed log cabin was spared, due to the ingenious tale told by my mother as to the whereabouts of my father; and yet she taught her children to fear God and tell the truth. My vigil was trying to one of my years, for the days seemed like weeks, but the importance of hiding our cattle was thoroughly impressed