BACK TO MY FAVORITE OCCUPATION, THAT OF A WILD AND WOOLLY COW BOY.

When the oyster season began, I abandoned the melon trade in favor of the former.

I would load up at one of the many oyster reefs in the Bay and take them either to the factory or Indianola where they sold for one dollar a barrel, in the shell.

Along in October sometime, I worked up a scheme by which I thought I could make a stake. My scheme was to get into the Colorado river where there were no boats and speculate among the africans that lined the river banks on both sides just as far up as it was navigable, which was fifty miles or more.

The worst job was to get the boat into the river, the mouth of it being stopped up with a raft, or "drift" about eighteen miles long.

My only show was to snake her across the prairie from the head of Willson's creek, a distance of five miles—and that I concluded to do if it took all the oxen in Matagorda county.

As I needed a partner in my new enterprise, I managed to find one in the person of an old irishman by the name of "Big Jack." He only had a capital of eighteen dollars but I agreed to give him half of the profits—which I figured on being very large. You see my intentions were to swap for hides, pecans, etc., which I would have hauled overland to Willson's creek and from there to Indianola by sail boat.

Our plans being laid we struck out for Indianola to buy our goods—all kinds of articles that we thought would catch the negro's eye, including a good supply of tanglefoot—which I am sorry to say cost me dear, besides being the cause of smashing my little scheme into a thousand fragments.

We finally started back from Indianola with our load of goods; and Jack being an irishman, couldn't resist the temptation of taking a "wee drop of the critter" every fifteen or twenty minutes. The consequences were everything but edifying.

I hired Anthony Moore, a gentleman of color to haul the Blood Hound and all of our traps to the river.

We fixed rollers under the boat and after getting her out high and dry on the ball prairie, found that we didn't have oxen enough to carry out the job.

While Anthony Moore was off rustling for a couple more yoke of cattle, I hired a horse to ride up to the Post Office after my mail, but before starting I gave Jack a raking over for remaining drunk so long. He hadn't drawn a sober breath since leaving town.

When I returned next evening Jack was gone—no one there but my faithful dog, Ranger.

I found Jack had taken a negro's skiff and pulled down Willson's creek, taking all of my snide jewelry, tobacco, etc. along. I traced him up to where he had sold a lot of the stuff. He sold an old englishman a lot of tobacco for seven dollars that didn't cost less than twenty. Being discouraged I sold the Blood Hound to Anthony Moore for twenty-five dollars, right where she lay, on the open prairie.

I then hired to Wiley Kuykendall, who was buying and shipping beeves at Houston, at twenty-five dollars per month. I left my companion, Ranger, with Anthony, paying him two dollars and a half a month for his board. But poor dog he met a sad fate the next winter during one of my rash moments.

I was out after a wild bunch of horses one day and while trying to slip up on them unobserved Ranger and three others belonging to a neighbor made a break after a little calf that jumped up out of the tall grass, which of course scared the horses. I wanted to run after them as that was my best and only chance, but I hated to go off and let the dogs kill the poor little calf which they all four had hold of by that time.

I finally galloped back and yelled myself hoarse trying to get them off; but no use, so drawing my pistol I began firing right and left.

When the smoke cleared away I discovered two of the dogs lifeless and poor Ranger crawling up towards me howling with pain. He was shot through both shoulders. No, no! I didn't feel bad; it was some other youngster about my size. I dismounted and caressed the poor dumb brute, with tears in my eyes. It was ten miles to camp or the nearest ranch, therefore I had no alternative but to kill him—or leave him there to suffer and finally die. I had tried to lift him on my horse so as to take him to camp and try and doctor him up, but he was too heavy—being a large, powerful brute.

I made several attempts to kill him, but every time I would raise the pistol to shoot he would look up into my eyes so pitifully as much as to say please don't kill me. I at last mounted my horse and after starting off wheeled around in my saddle and put a bullet between his eyes. Thus ended the life of as faithful a dog as ever lived.

After New Year's I quit Mr. Wiley and went to work again on my own hook, skinning cattle and branding Mavricks. I had bought me a twenty-five dollar horse for the occasion.

I established my camp at the head of Cashe's creek, three miles above Mr. Yeamans.' The only company I had was Ranger and I didn't have him but a short while, as you already know.

Cattle died pretty badly that winter and therefore I made quite a pile of money, besides branding a great many Mavricks.

About the middle of April I met with a painful and almost fatal accident—got shot through the knee with one of those old time dragoon pistols, which carry a very large ball.

The bullet entered the top of my knee and came out—or at least was cut out—on the opposite side; went right through the knee-cap. The doctor who waited on me said I would be a cripple for life, but he missed his guess, although I have received another bullet hole through the same knee since then.

After getting wounded I remained at Mr. Yeamans' awhile and then went down to Mr. Morris' on Tresspalacious Bay to board.

When I got so that I could move around on crutches I went up to Mr. John Pierce's ranch to live. Mr. Pierce had persuaded me to put in my time going to school while unable to work. He gave me my board and washing free and all I had to do was to take care of the "children," little Johnny Pierce, eight years old, Mamie Pierce, "Shang's" only child, twelve years old and a Miss Fannie Elliott, sweet sixteen. The school house being two miles off, we had to ride on horseback.

I would have had a soft time of it all summer, but before two weeks rolled around I had a fuss with the red complexioned school master. I then mounted "Boney-part" and struck out for Houston, ninety miles east.

I arrived in Houston during the State Fair. Everything was lively there—in fact too lively for me. The first thing I did was to strike a monte game and the second thing was lose nearly all the money I had.

After quitting the monte game I struck out to hunt aunt "Mary" whom I heard had moved to Houston from Galveston. I had never seen her that I remembered of, but held her in high esteem for her kindness in sending me the white canvas breeches during the war.

I found her after hunting all day; she kept a private boarding house close to the Union depot. She appeared to be glad to see me.

The next day aunt Mary's husband, Mr. James McClain, took me out to the Fair ground to see the sights. The biggest sight to me was Jeff. Davis, although I was deceived as to his makeup; I expected to see a portly looking man on a gray horse.

May be the following song that I used to sing during the war had something to do with that, for it ran thus:

Jeff Davis is our President,
And Lincoln is a fool,
Jeff Davis rides a big gray horse
While Lincoln rides a mule.