A TEXAS RANGER: True Story of the Leander H. Mcnelly's Texas Ranger Company in the Wild Horse Desert. Napoleon Augustus Jennings
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ranch. How was I to get away? How could I pay my bill without money? ‘What was I to do? What would become of me?
I was in my first serious predicament, and as unhappy a youth as could well be imagined. I thought with longing of the safety of my father’s house in Philadelphia, and heartily wished myself back there again.
My mind was not a bit relieved by an incident which occurred at the hotel, three or four days after my arrival.
I was sitting in the hotel office, wondering what I should do to get out of my trouble, when the proprietor, Baker—a big, heavy, broad-shouldered man, with a long, gray beard, which gave him a patriarchal appearance—walked in. He was greatly excited. He walked straight up to a young man who was sitting near me and caught him roughly by the collar.
“Here, you rascal!” he exclaimed, “I’ve found you out. You thought you could beat me, did you? Take that!”
Old Baker emphasized his words by hitting the young man over the head with a heavy cane. The blood ran clown the man’s face, and he struggled to get away. He finally succeeded in escaping from Baker and ran out of the hotel.
“I guess he won’t try to beat a hotel out o’ board and lodging in a hurry again,” said old Baker, looking after him, with a grin.
Naturally, this assault made a deep impression upon me. I looked upon Baker with distrust every time he came near me, and felt like throwing up my arm to ward off a blow whenever he greeted me.
The end of my first week came all too soon, and the clerk handed me my bill; it amounted to $10.25. The extra quarter was for bringing my trunk from the stage office to the hotel. I had seventy-five cents in my pocket when I received the bill. I thought it well over, and then made up my mind to go to Baker and make a clean breast of the whole matter to him. It was not without many misgivings that I decided to take this course, but it turned out to be the best thing I could have done. Mr. Baker listened with patience to my rather lame explanation of why I could not pay the bill. I was so nervous that I was almost crying with mortification.
“Well, my boy,” said the old man, kindly, when I had finished, “we must find something for you to do. How would you like to work on a ranch?”
I told him that I had come to Texas to work on a ranch. I was willing to do so for a short time, I said, until I learned something about the business, then I proposed to start a ranch of my own. He asked me if I had any capital in prospect, and I told him I had not. I was very young indeed in those days.
The upshot of our conversation was that he introduced me to one of his guests, a cattleman named Reynolds, who owned a ranch in Atascosa County, south of San Antonio. Reynolds asked me if I had ever worked in Texas before, and when I told him I had not, he hesitated about employing me. I assured him that, although I had not worked in
Texas, I was not a bit afraid of any kind of work, and only longed for the chance to show what I could do. This did not seem to impress him greatly, but he finally said he would give me a trial.
Mr. Baker said I could leave my trunk at his hotel until I was able to pay him what I owed. I thought this was very kind in him. My trunk, by the way, with its contents, was worth about ten times the amount of his bill.
I was so elated over my good fortune that I started out that evening to “see the town,” a thing 1 had not attempted before. The first place I went to was a Mexican gambling room. There were several games of monte in progress. I had never seen monte played, nor any gambling for that matter, and I became greatly interested. At last I grew so fascinated that I ventured to bet seventy-five cents—my fortune—on the turn of a card. I regret to say, I won. I bet again and again, until I had won over twenty dollars. I kept on playing, with the inevitable result that I left the place penniless. For the first time in my life I was “flat broke.”
Early the next morning I started with Reynolds for his ranch. He brought two little Texas ponies around to the front of the hotel, about sunrise, and told me I was to ride one of them. I was delighted. I had ridden a horse perhaps a dozen times in my life, and I thought I was an expert rider. But I had never ridden very far at a time, and when Reynolds said we should have to go thirty-five miles that day I had some misgivings as to how I was going to stand it. But I kept them to myself, and we started. Reynolds set the pace at that easy “lope” which the tough, wiry little Texas ponies can keep up hour after hour without showing fatigue. The motion was as easy as that of a rocking chair, and I thought I should never tire of it. I did, though.
Long before we had covered the thirty-five miles I began to suffer. I had often heard the common expression about every bone in one’s body aching; I had probably used it, carelessly, myself; but before I finished that ride I knew of a verity what it meant. Not only did every bone ache, but every muscle, and joint, and nerve in my body, from the crown of my head to the ends of my toes, was giving me excruciating pain. Every mile we covered added to my sufferings.
We stopped at noon to rest and eat and let the horses graze. When, after about two hours, Reynolds said it was time for us to be going on, it took real courage for me to get on that little mustang again. It was after dark when we at last reached Reynold’s ranch. I tumbled from the pony’s back more dead than alive, and I then and there resolved never again to ride a horse. I was far too tired and in too much pain to sleep, and all night I suffered intensely.
Before I left Texas, I practically lived on a horse for three years. I have ridden for three weeks at a time in pouring rain, and have slept every night during that period on wet ground, covered with a wet blanket. I have ridden “bucking broncos,” and horses that trotted with the gait of an animated pile driver. I have raced for my life in front of a herd of stampeded cattle. I have been chased forty miles at night by desperadoes, anxious to make a sieve of my body with bullets. But never have I experienced anything like that first Texas ride.
Long before daylight the next morning I was called by Reynolds, who said that he wanted me to go to Pleasanton with him to a “stock meeting.” I didn’t know what a “stock meeting” was, but I was quite sure I didn’t want to go to that one. I simply wanted to lie quiet and die, but pride came to my aid and, stiff and sore as I was, I struggled to my feet, ate a breakfast of black coffee and cornbread, and again mounted my mustang. We started just as the first faint streak of dawn showed in the sky and reached Pleasanton about an hour after the sun had risen. Reynolds probably came to the conclusion that I was too much of a “tenderfoot” or “shorthorn” for his use, for he deserted me in Pleasanton, and left me there to shift for myself. He calmly told me he had changed his mind about employing me, and went away and left me, taking with him the horse I had so painfully ridden.
Chapter II
Cattle-men and Their Cheery Customs—"Mavericks" —My First Job, Watering Horses—Engaged by John Ross—Removed to Laredo—My First "Norther"—Christopher Criss's Story—Howling Coyotes— The Town of Laredo—A Mexican Fiesta—Mexicans at Monte—Rescued by a Compatriot.
I had been in a sad predicament in San Antonio, but now my situation was indeed desperate. I was not only penniless, but hungry and friendless. The town was full of cattlemen and cowboys, who had come to it to attend the stock meeting. They were a good-natured, jolly set of fellows, but through my inexperienced young Eastern eyes I saw in them only a lot of rough, loud talking, swearing ruffians.
At that time Texas had but few fences in it, and cattle roamed at will all over the state. The only way a cattle owner had of keeping his property was by branding the calves and cutting their ears in some fanciful way. These brands and earmarks were duly registered in the county clerk’s office and determined the ownership of the cattle. All unbranded cattle were known as “mavericks.” They belonged to nobody in particular, but if a cattleman came across one, he would rope it, throw it down, and brand it.
The principal market for Texas cattle was in