Little Josephine Cole, not yet three years old, trying to catch an evasive cat in our home, shocked her Aunt Myrtle by saying, “Damn that cat.” My wife was telling Mrs. Morrison, our neighbor, about it, When Dick Morrison, the husband, spoke up saying, “I said those very Words about our damned old cat while the child was over here yesterday.” It has wisely been said: “Out of the mouths of babies come Words we shouldn’t have said in the first place.”

Not Hitherto Published—1948.

By John T. Bristow

As sequel to the foregoing old-time cattle riding story-experienced in my younger days on the gently undulating plains of Northeast Kansas, I here record a contrasting up-to-date cattle riding experience I recently had on a far away mountain range. But in this last ride I did not race my horse and crack my whip for the sheer fun of it—as of yore.

Until Sunday, April 18, 1948, I had not been on a horse for fifty-five years—not since the opening of the Cherokee Strip, September 16, 1893, at noon, when, with my brother Dave, and Dr. David H. Fitzgerald, and Charley Rice, I rode sixteen miles in fifty-six minutes to locate a claim on Turkey creek, seven miles southwest of the present city of Enid, Oklahoma. In that race we were led—for a price — by “Ranaky Bill,” an Oklahoma outlaw.

While going up the mountain, the name of other notorious outlaws—the Daltons—was mentioned by my nephew, Sam Bristow, with whom I was riding. Sam owns “Dalton Mountain,” some sixty miles east of Fresno, California, where it is said those desperadoes were in hiding a long time ago.

The Dalton gang of bank robbers—following in the wake of the Jesse James gang whose hideout was in Missouri — operated mainly, I believe, in Kansas and the Indian Territory, in the late ‘80’s. At any rate, the Dalton bank robbers came to grief at Coffeyville in southern Kansas, with three of the gang killed by a sharp-shooting local hardware merchant, and law enforcement officers. Grat and Bob Dalton were killed. Emmett Dalton was badly shot up — was captured, convicted, and given a life sentence. President Theodore Roosevelt pardoned him. I have a faint recollection that sometime prior to the Coffeyville raid, the news dispatches stated that the Daltons—under assumed names—had shipped their horses to the Far west. And it is not at all improbable that our old-time Kansas and Indian Territory band of desperadoes rode their horses to the saddle-back near the top of my nephew’s 3500 foot mountain, from which eminence they could have guarded the approach in all directions.

Dalton Mountain is an attraction for patrons of a large Dude Ranch close by, in the Kings river area—something to talk about only. No dude could ride a horse up that mountain—particularly none of the thirty New York “dude” girls who rode the canyon trails thereabout for several weeks, recently.

Also, I recall the time when Jim Dalton, after killing Sheriff Charley Batterson and escaping from the Marysville jail, was captured by a posse led by Constable Charley Andrews, near the Buening school, eight miles southwest of Wetmore—my home town. After serving time, it was said, Jim Dalton went to Los Angeles and made an honorable “killing” in the manufacture of ovens for bakeries. I do not know if he was a member of the old gang. Probably not. But it has often been considered that he was.

But we were not riding via a series of switchbacks to the top of Dalton Mountain especially to view that historic spot. From the saddle-back, looking to the north down a tree-studded canyon, and looking back over the trail we had traveled, we could see at a glance much of Sam’s 1480 acres, of mountain pasture land, trees and rocks. And from this lookout we could locate nearly all of his ninety-eight head of cattle that had wintered there during the worst winter drought that California has had in eighty years, while other valley ranchmen were feeding $40 hay to $100 cattle, or shipping their stock to pastures in other states—some to the wheat fields of Western Kansas. The north slope of Dalton mountain, shielded from the burning sun, is what saved the day for Sam. Campbell mountain, almost in Sam’s dooryard, was picked bare. Sam bought fifteen of the cattle taken off that range. In his pasture, those newly purchased cattle did not graze with the other stock. And this is where the trained McNabb shepherd dog, Spike, comes in. I shall give Spike a line, later.

When Sam was saddling the horses before loading them in the truck for the 35 mile drive up into the mountains, from his 80-acre valley ranch, his wife—Anna—came out to the barnyard, and said to me, “Don’t let Sam talk you into making that hard ride all the way up to the top of the mountain. When you get tired, turn around and come back.” Excellent advice—but that was the one thing I couldn’t do. We were already coming down when I began to tire, and a quick reflection on Anna’s injunction told me that to turn around then would have availed me nothing. And though I had had it done to me many times in my younger days, that hard four hours horseback ride up the mountain and back did not produce the saddle-weary spots my relatives were expecting.

For identification purposes, let’s say Sam’s son Robert, 21-year-old ex-GI, an exemplary young man, and Sam’s daughter Virginia Anne, 13 years old, each own a dog — Spike and Curley. When loading the horses into the truck both dogs were “rearing” to go. Spike, the trained cattle dog, told us by signs and in perfectly understandable dog language that he wanted to ride in the cab. But he was forced in with the horses—and after he had made the rounds of the pasture, he climbed in with the horses without argument for the return trip. In the pasture, the dog would run ahead and spot segregated bunches of cattle, then come back, point out the stock, and stand “at attention’” awaiting orders. Sam said should he tell Spike to “Go get ‘em,” the dog would be off right now. He said it was almost impossible to get the cattle out of the hills without a trained dog. Sam paid $50 for the pup, and trained it himself.

Sam had said he would not take Virginia Anne’s dog along with us, that Curley would likely pick up a deer trail and follow it for hours, which might delay the return trip.

He planned to drive back by the Kings river road through the Dude Ranch to show me the place where the new irrigation ditch now being put through past his valley ranch — to take San Joaquin river water from the lake formed by the recently built Friant dam—goes under the Kings river, ninety feet below, through a 27 foot circular cement tube nearly three-eights of a mile in length. From the 100 foot bridge spanning the irrigation ditch one could look down 90 feet to the bottom of the ditch, and up nearly a 100 feet to the top of the ridge of dirt deposited by the big dragline. We had seen the west approach to this siphon on coming out from Fresno the evening before.

Sam says he frequently sees deer in his pasture—particularly one big buck—always before the hunting season opens, but never when he is permitted to shoot them. With the advancing years, it seems the deer, as well as man, are taking on wisdom. Hunters say that as soon as the season in California opens the deer make a break for the National Parks, where they are protected.

Sam also said that we would call on Mrs. Bert Elwood, who has lived in the canyon adjoining his pasture for a great many years—and get the facts about the Daltons. But she was not at home when we stopped, on our way out. I really wanted to obtain from her a firsthand report on the early-day cattle business, and information about the cougar menace in the low mountains years ago. I have been told that the cougars were alarmingly destructive then.

The cougars are now mostly in the high mountains, though the Fresno Bee reported two killed in the Valley last winter. Professional hunters have kept them down in recent years. It is said a professional cougar hunter named Bruce—his surname—has a pack of dogs that will track them down without fail, if the scent is not more than 72 hours old. A grown cougar will take a toll of 50 deer in one season.

Getting back to the wise deer in the parks. While “doing” the Sequoia National Park five years ago with Major Clement A. Tavares—he was in the service then, and that “Major” handle was pretty firmly fixed, but “Doctor” takes precedent now—who is the husband of my niece, Alice Bristow, I saw a deer browsing about the ranger camp. The Major took a “movie” of it while it was walking in front of a giant Sequoia tree. A Ranger told me it was a “wild” deer that had never been in captivity. And I saw deer at several places by the roadside so close that I could have almost touched them. Also we saw two young bucks “sparring” almost under the General Grant big tree. The Major turned his camera on them.

Again, yesterday, we saw deer in the Yosemite Valley. My brother Theodore shooed one away from a foot-path where it was nonchalantly nibbling a mushroom. Deer are very tame in the valley.

The Yosemite Falls, seen at their best on Sunday, May 23, 1948, with Yosemite creek in flood from melting snow, did not look to be 2425 feet in height; not until we got up close enough to be sprayed — good. Even the foot-path through the grove seemed to grow in length, as we walked toward the Falls.

Many, many years ago, I heard Eugene May lecture on the beauty and immensity of Yosemite Valley at the Methodist Church in Wetmore. When it came to describing the Falls, he got up on his toes, reached for the sky—literally soaring up, up, up, in an unbelievable manner. Now I find the Falls and other notable sights in the valley all that May said they were—and then some. There are six separate falls pouring into the valley.

Nothing looks its size up in the High Country. The far famed tunnel drive through the big Sequoia tree in the Mariposa Big Tree Grove, is deceiving. It looked as if it would be a tight squeeze for the car, but after passing through with room to spare, I could easily believe a cattle truck might pass through it.

While driving in the Grove, with the big trees standing surprisingly close together, the Doctor said he had been pretty much all over the world, and had seen nothing to compare with this wonderful Grove. Just imagine a tree 33 foot through standing 300 feet high.

When I first went up into the Sierra Nevada Mountains, years ago—when automobiles were first coming into general use—trees were hitched on behind the cars to hold them back while coming down the mountain. And there was a sizable wood-yard at the foothills—product of those drags.

Five years ago, I came down from the Sequoia National Park with Major Tavares, when he put the machine in low gear and eased it down ever so gently. But now, with everything in California moving along in high gear, the tendency is to open ‘er up, and let ‘er drop down at an alarming rate of speed.

Last Sunday the Doctor—yes, it was the Doctor now — brought me safely down from the Mariposa Big Tree Grove, at a fast clip—a drop of nearly 8,000 feet in 65 miles of winding hairpin curves, done in less than that many minutes, the speedometer showing 65 to 70 miles all the way. And I had been told that his wife Alice was the best driver in the San Joaquin valley.

The Park roads are really wonderful—built at the right pitch for safety, at every turn.

The Doctor, with Alice and their two children, Clemie, eight, and Myrna, three, plan to fly in June to Honolulu—the Doctor’s birthplace. He is not Hawaiian, however. Alice has invited me to accompany them—but as I have always believed air travel unsafe, I declined, with thanks.

But now, after Sunday, I think I would not balk at anything—let come what may.

THE OLD SWIMMING HOLE

Published in Wetmore Spectator January 3, 1936

By John T. Bristow

Other things may be submerged in the whirlpool of life and forgotten, but memory of the old swimming hole, no matter where it was, or in what generation, lives long.

Now comes a letter from one of the old “boys” living in another state calling for elaboration of that tanyard gang’s doings. Combining the old swimming hole with the tanyard and our circus layout—they were closely connected — he mentions them as likely material for a story. A “funny” story, he suggests.

Allright, Buddy. You shall have it. But I must warn you, Old Pal, that you will, like as not, have the jitters instead of a laugh. But you have asked for it. As the desired mirth-provoking story, this one will likely be a flop. Buddy must know that while those old escapades, incidents, or what-nots, always carry well with the ones who have lived them, when transported in word-pictures across the years to a new audience, by a limping artist, they very often fail to click.

Halfway convinced that I could still be murdered for this thing, I have decided to write a few paragraphs about the old swimming hole and the gang—and some girls. However, I do not falter. Going on the theory that when the sweetness of life is over what comes after cannot greatly matter, I assume the risk—deliberately court danger.

Regardless of the ever-present smell, that tanyard, located in a bend of the creek just west of where the town bridge is now, was made a sort of rendezvous for all the town boys. A dam was constructed across the creek, and there was a Damsite Company, fully officered. The pond — long, wide, and eight feet deep made a fine swimming hole.

Michael Norton, a diminutive Irish boy, was our life-saver. Shy of qualifications, he was given the post for no good reason at all—unless it was that his willingness greatly exceeded his size. Michael was a queer lad. He always crossed himself three times before going into the water, and his lips would work in a funny little way without saying anything. Furthermore, it was characteristic of the little fellow to round out his sentences—especially when earnestness or excitement spurred — with, “so I will,” or with, “so he did.” And sometimes it would characteristic of the little fellow to round out his sentences—especially when earnestness or excitement spurred — with, “so I will,” or with, “so he did.” And sometimes it would be “You bet.”

E D Woodburn

Lawyer

HOLTON, KANSAS

January 21 1936

Mr. John T. Bristow, Wetmore, Kansas

Dear John:--

This morning I took time to read “THE OLD* SWIMMING HOLE” which you wrote for the Wetmore Spectator. As usual, you are very interesting and your article will be enjoyed by all of the citizens of Wetmore and community who lived there in the long ago.

It is too bad, John, that you ever quit the paper business. It seems to me that you naturally belong to that honorable “tribe.’* I have laid away your articles as I will enjoy reading them again and again. I have often heard it said that it is one of the signs of old age when one begins to hark back to our childhood days. Maybe so. I am not denying that age i3 probably creeping upon you, but I still insist that I “am as young as I used to be.” We try to keep in touch with the younger generation and to be and become interested in the things of today but, in fairness and in strict honesty with ourselves, we will have to admit that you and I and others of our age are inclined “to cast our eyes, like a flashing meteor, forward into the past.”

Keep it up, John, and when you have anything to write remember, I will appreciate a copy of the good old Wetmore Spectator containing your article.

Yours very truly,

E. D. Woodburn

At that time the deep slough south of the railroad tracks, instead of turning abruptly at Kansas avenue and paralleling that street to the creek as it does now, flowed straight across to a point fifty yards down stream. The narrow strip of land between slough and creek formed the north bank of the old swimming hole. Trees and bramble shut out public gaze fairly well, but they did not make a dependable screen against prying eyes.

Ten yards farther down stream from the mouth of the slough was the old ford. Still farther down stream there was then and is now a mammoth elm tree that has budded and shed its leaves sixty times since that day. Tramped firm by cow hoofs, and free of weeds, this bit of ground marked the spot where our townspeople often went for a few hours loll in the shade, and where in the surrounding grove even picnics were sometimes held. It was here also where, on one Independence Day, a fine English lady from the old Colony essayed to pet a horse on its nether end and was kicked in the bread-basket. It was so phrased by our elders then.

In the old days there was in use in the church a hymn-book containing a song entitled “Beautiful Gates Ajar.” “Dutch” Charley Kumbash, with the jarring note of the horse’s vengeance and the lady’s name fixed in mind, said: “It wass now for her the Peu-ti-ful Kates Achar.” The lady was a Mrs. Gates, daughter of John Radford—later, Mrs. “Paddy” Ryan.

Starting from the friendly shade of that great elm, where they had gone to while away a little time, and stopping at the old ford for a wade in the water, a bevy of girls, wandering aimlessly about, fell upon the boys’ domain.

Willie sent out a low whistle of warning. Eyes from all parts of the pond swept the opening down stream. Girls coming—a lot of them, too many to count. The boys ducked. Henry, who chanced to be in the top of a small elm tree ready for a dive, found the bottom of the pond with his proboscis in no time. One crafty little fellow, well plastered with mud, was caught wholly unawares, taking his siesta on the bank, cut off from the pond. As one having lost all sense of decency, he darted this way and that way in front of the girls—and then, like an ostrich, hid his head in the low forks of a tree, with back exposed to company. Well now, maybe it is that the ostrich, when he sticks his head in the sand, hopes that he might be taken for another bird. Shall I name this ostrich imitator? Well—maybe later.

“Let them come!” yelled Henry Callahan, in a braggadocio way. “Who cares! We used to swim with the Peters girls—and that didn’t kill us.”

“Yeah,” drawled Timothy Doble, in his usual draggy voice, “but remember, we had our pants on then—and that made a lot of difference.”

Timothy was so right about this. It certainly did make a lot of difference. Incidentally, I may say I have not thought of this boy for a long time. And Gaskel was his me—not Doble. But the boys all called him Doble because he was at one time—a considerable time—in a fair way to have Archibald Doble for a stepfather. However, Bill Kerr, young school teacher, stepped in and married the widow Gaskel, who was nearly twice his own age. That marriage did not endure.

Before going on with the main show, let us go back little—maybe a year, maybe two or three years. This tanyard pool brought the swimming hole a mile and a quarter closer to town—and it was hailed with delight by le barefoot boys. Prior to this, the town boys did their swimming in the “prairie pools” out south. But the pools had their bad features—hazards fraught with disturbing elements.

In the first place, one-third of the distance to the pools was across the big bottom south of Spring creek which skirts the town. The bottom was covered with a rank growth of sloughgrass, and, in the early summer months — the natural time for swimming—after the grass had burned off, needle-pointed stubs were very damaging bare, feet, and caused utterances of many an “ouch” and not infrequently a “damnit”—and this unholy language emanating from youngsters barely past the trundle-bed stage. But the little sinners could swim—every one of them.

The prairie pool patronized most, if it were not filled with soil, as are all the other pools now, would be close to the public road, on the Grant Dale forty acres—open territory then. Directly north of this was the Barney Peters forty-acre isolated prairie farm. We could always count being accompanied by one or more of the four Peters — Bill, George, Jim, and John. And on rare occasions two Peters girls, Bertha and Mary, would invade our privacy.

The pool was about 50 by 25 feet in dimensions with a minimum depth of eight feet. It was edged with a sort of “greasewood” growth of brush which grew in clusters at the water’s edge three feet below the rim. Often water snakes could be seen sunning themselves on branches which curved out over the water. It was a most disquieting feeling to have one of those four-foot fellows slither across one’s back. They were not poisonous. Still they were snakes.

The Peters girls did not often come upon the scene. But when they did, it was more disturbing than to be raked over the back by those snakes. The south side of the pool offered the best place for the snakes to sun themselves — and as soon as the water was agitated by the bathers coming in from the north side, as they always did, the snakes would drop off into the water and make, blindly, for the opposite side and disappear under the north bank. Some of the snakes seemed to sleep more soundly than others, and, on a good day, the snake parade to the north side, while not continuous was, seemingly, never ended. Were it true, as claimed in the old days, that those snakes passing over one’s back would make hair grow wherever they touched the bare skin, I would have more hair on my back than I now have on my head.

And occasionally a turtle would drop off those bushes into the swimming hole. It was said by oldtimers that should a turtle nip you that it would not let loose until sundown. Other oldsters said it would hang on until it thundered. The adventurous youngsters—usually ready to try anything—never, to my knowledge, tried to find out which way was right. With brassy skies and prolonged summer droughts; with thunder clouds few and far between, made it too risky. At that time swim-suits were unknown here — maybe just not used—and always after a swim with the Peters girls, we would have to walk home in our wet pants.

That chain of water holes along a three-mile treeless water course, was said to have been “buffalo” holes. But this I was inclined to doubt, after seeing the remains of true buffalo wallows in Western Kansas. My Uncle Nick Bristow said there were no buffalo here when he came, and that so far as he knew no one before him had seen any. But in my time, the whole plains country west of the Blue river was swarming with them. They were shamefully slaughtered by eastern outfitted crews, for their hides. I believe that Zan Gray ’ s novel, “The Thundering Herd, ” was inspired by the big herds of buffalo in Southwestern Kansas.

Then there were the “second” pools, a longer wash, one mile farther south, fed partly by the Bradford spring, which we would patronize in dry times when the stream connecting the “first” pools would stop running.

Back at the tanyard pool: Those girls, full of high spirits and gay chatter, scooped up our clothing, such as it was, and stood on the bank laughing at us. Save for the one with head so nattily ensconced in tree crotch, all were in water up to necks, and thinking some rather ugly thoughts, we were, I can assure you, most miserable. Miserable, however, does not fully define the plight of the featherless bird on the bank.

Then, holding a yapping little dog to a bulging bosom, a Good Samaritan came moving in. Her smiling face was framed in a lovely orange bonnet. She interceded for the boys. The girls were adamant, heartless. For her pains, the intermediary was called “Mother Fuzzicks”—then, and there-after. She was in truth the mother of the brave Indian fighter mentioned in an earlier article.

In all fairness to those girls I should say that they were, probably, possessed of the idea that their appearance in this manner might cure a certain habitue of the water hole of being neglectful of his duties at home, and maybe cause him to choose better company as well. They could not be censured for that. They were nice girls, those intruders.

It was our life-saver who undertook to solve the problem for us—the little fellow of multiple peculiarities, the most pronounced of which, as you have been informed, was displayed in his crossing himself three times before going into the water.

I rather think that one, maybe two, of Michael’s older sisters were among that hilarious lot. But as to that I cannot be sure. Much water has gone over the dam since that day and on some points things are a bit foggy. It is one of the tricks of memory—that parts of a recalled incident will stand out clearly while other parts remain, shadowy and tantalizingly, just outside the grasp of the mind.

So, then, of those damsels I make no identifications — this on account of much fog. Still, casting back through the mists of many years, I can sense enough of the old thing to cause me to suspect that I could almost spit on one of those erstwhile trim maidens, now grown stout, from where I write. Not, however, that I would want to do so at this late date.

With a mischievous twinkle in his pale blue eyes, Michael said: “Lave them to me boys. By-gorry I’ll show them a trick with a hole in it; I will so I will!” Much stress was laid upon the last phrase. It contained the true Irish accent. A trick with a hole in it! An old saying, of course — much used then.

Manifestly, Michael had decided, as any fine boy of the period would, to deal modestly with the girls—or, at least, with as much modesty as the exigencies of the situation would permit—but he had reckoned without taking into account the destructive forces of Time upon discarded tinware.

Someone, pointing to a stick on the bank, said, “Take that and wallop ‘em good!” It was a portion from the butt end of a well seasoned sumac.

“Aye, I have it!” mouthed Michael. At the same time he fished out of the mud at the edge of the pond an old weather-beaten dishpan, one of many that had been used in the tannery for various purposes. This he swung in front of him.

Then, with surprising alacrity and apparent confidence in himself and the implement of his veiling, he bounded up the bank, pivoting at the top long enough to cast a reassuring look over his shoulder to his buddies in the water. The gang beamed approvingly on their savior.

Michael advanced on the intruders, shouting in a rather thin voice, “Drop the rags, and scram!” He waved his cudgel. No results. Michael didn’t like having his efforts go for naught that way. The laughter went out of his eyes. His Irish was up. He resisted an impulse at belligerence. Then, “Vamoose, I tell you, or bygorry you’ll be knowing the feel of this shillelagh!” Now, however, his belligerent interest was superseded by new elements.

The girls did not budge. Not then. They laughed mightily. All but one. The Good Samaritan shook with suppressed laughter. Her orange bonnet bobbed in fine harmony. The little doggie barked. With deep concern and echoes of mortification trailing in her voice, the laughless one, stepping forward—it was now observed that she held in her hand a shillelagh of her own, once again of magic sumac origin—exclaimed, “Holy horrors! Look Michael! Your manners! There do be a hole in your shield!”

This he took to indicate her desire for him to depart — as, indeed, it did. And Michael, our defender, “took water.”

You must believe me now when I say to you that the never-to-be-dispensed-with three-time act, peculiarly and persistently the boy’s very own, was delayed somewhat.

“You bet!”