A LONELY TRIP DOWN THE CIMERON.

The next morning after the steer racket I pulled out for Kiowa, Kansas. It was then sleeting from the north, consequently I had to face it.

About three o'clock in the evening I changed my notion and concluded to head for Texas. So I turned east, down the Eagle Chief, to where it emptied into the Cimeron, and thence down that stream; knowing that I was bound to strike the Chisholm trail—the one I came up on, the spring before.

I camped that night at the mouth of Eagle Chief, and went to roost on an empty stomach, not having brought any grub with me. I was then in the western edge of what is known as the Black-jack country, which extends east far beyond the Chisholm trail.

The next morning I continued down the Cimeron, through Black-jack timber and sand hills. To avoid the sand hills, which appeared fewer on the opposite side, I undertook to cross the river, but bogged down in the quicksand and had to turn back.

That night I camped between two large sand hills and made my bed in a tall bunch of blue-stem grass. I went to bed as full as a tick, as I had just eaten a mule-eared rabbit, one I had slipped up onto and killed with a club. I was afraid to shoot at the large droves of deer and turkeys, on account of the country being full of fresh indian signs.

I crawled out of my nest next morning almost frozen. I built a roaring big fire on the south edge of the bunch of tall grass so as to check the cold piercing norther. After enjoying the warm fire a few moments, I began to get thirsty and there being no water near at hand, I took my tin cup and walked over to a large snow-drift a short distance off, to get it full of clean snow, which I intended melting by the fire to quench my burning thirst.

While filling the cup I heard a crackling noise behind me and looking over my shoulder discovered a blaze of fire twenty feet in the air and spreading at a terrible rate. I arrived on the scene just in time to save Whisky-peat from a horrible death. He was tied to a tree, the top limbs of which were already in a blaze. I also managed to save my saddle and an old piece of saddle blanket, they being out under the tree that Whisky-peat was tied to. I didn't mind losing my leather leggins, saddle blankets, etc., so much as I did the old delapidated overcoat that contained a little silver-plated match box in one of the pockets.

That day I traveled steady, but not making very rapid progress, on account of winding around sand hills, watching for indians and going around the heads of boggy sloughs. I was certain of striking the Chisholm trail before night, but was doomed to disappointment.

I pitched camp about nine o'clock that night and played a single-handed game of freeze-out until morning, not having any matches to make a fire with.

I hadn't gone more than two miles next morning when I came across a camp-fire, which looked as though it had been used a few hours before; on examination I found it had been an indian camp, just vacated that morning. The trail, which contained the tracks of forty or fifty head of horses, led down the river. After warming myself I struck right out on their trail, being very cautious not to run onto them. Every now and then I would dismount and crawl to the top of a tall sand hill to see that the road was clear ahead.

About noon I came to a large creek, which proved to be "Turkey Creek." The reds had made a good crossing by digging the banks down and breaking the ice.

After crossing, I hadn't gone but a short distance when I came in sight of the Chisholm trail. I never was so glad to see anything before—unless it was the little streak of daylight under the steer's flanks.

The indians on striking the trail had struck south on it; and after crossing the Cimeron I came in sight of them, about five miles ahead of me. I rode slow so as to let them get out of sight. I didn't care to come in contact with them for fear they might want my horse and possibly my scalp.

About dark that evening I rode into a large camp of Government freighters, who informed me that the fifty indians who had just passed—being on their way back to the reservation—were Kiowas who had been on a hunting expedition.

I fared well that night, got a good supper and a warm bed to sleep in—besides a good square meal of corn and oats for my horse.

The next morning before starting on my journey, an old irish teamster by the name of "Long Mike" presented me with a pair of pants—mine being almost in rags—and a blue soldier coat, which I can assure you I appreciated very much.

About dusk that evening, I rode into Cheyenne Agency and that night slept in a house for the first time since leaving Kiowa—in fact I hadn't seen a house since leaving Kiowa.

The next morning I continued south and that night put up at "Bill" Williams' ranch on the "South Canadian" river.

Shortly after leaving the Williams ranch next morning I met a crowd of Chickasaw indians who bantered me for a horse race. As Whisky-peat was tired and foot-sore, I refused; but they kept after me until finally I took them up. I put up my saddle and pistol against one of their ponies. The pistol I kept buckled around me for fear they might try to swindle me. The saddle I put up and rode the race bare-back. I came out ahead, but not enough to brag about. They gave up the pony without a murmer, but tried to persuade me to run against one of their other ponies, a much larger and finer looking one. I rode off thanking them very kindly for what they had already done for me.

That night I put up at a ranch on the Washita river and next morning before leaving swapped my indian pony off for another one and got ten dollars to-boot.

That morning I left the Chisholm trail and struck down the Washita river, in search of a good, lively place where I might put in the balance of the winter.

I landed in Erin Springs late that evening and found a grand ball in full bloom at Frank Murry's mansion. The dancers were a mixed crowd, the ladies being half-breeds and the men, mostly americans and very tough citizens.

Of course I joined the mob, being in search of excitement and had a gay old time drinking kill-me-quick whisky and swinging the pretty indian maidens.

After breakfast next morning the whole crowd, ladies and all, went down the river five miles to witness a "big" horse race at "Kickapoo" flat.

After the "big" race—which was for several thousand dollars—was over the day was spent in running pony races and drinking whisky. By night the whole mob were gloriously drunk, your humble servant included. There were several fights and fusses took place during the day, but no one seriously hurt.

It being against the laws of the United States to sell, or have whisky in the Indian territory, you might wonder where it came from: A man by the name of Bill Anderson—said to have been one of Quantrell's men during the war—did the selling.

He defied the United States marshalls and it was said that he had over a hundred indictments against him. He sold it at ten dollars a gallon, therefore you see he could afford to run quite a risk.

The next day on my way down the river to Paul's valley I got rid of my extra pony; I came across two apple peddlers who were on their way to Fort Sill with a load of apples and who had had the misfortune of losing one of their horses by death, the night before, thereby leaving them on the prairie helpless, unable to move on. They had no money to buy another horse with, having spent all their surplus wealth in Arkansas for the load of apples. When I gave them the pony, they felt very happy judging from their actions. On taking my departure one of them insisted on my taking his silver watch as a token of friendship. I afterwards had the watch stolen from me.

Well, patient reader, I will now drop the curtain for awhile. Just suffice it to say I had a tough time of it during the rest of the winter and came out carrying two bullet wounds. But I had some gay times as well as tough and won considerable money running Whisky-peat.

The following May I landed in Gainesville, Texas, "right side up with care" and from there went to Saint Joe on the Chisholm trail, where I succeeded in getting a job with a passing herd belonging to Capt. Littlefield of Gonzales. The boss' name was "Jim" Wells and the herd contained thirty-five hundred head of stock cattle. It being a terribly wet season we experienced considerable hardships, swimming swollen streams, etc. We also had some trouble with indians.

We arrived in Dodge City, Kansas on the third day of July and that night I quit and went to town to "whoop 'em up Liza Jane."

I met an old friend that night by the name of "Wess" Adams and we both had a gay time, until towards morning when he got severely stabbed in a free-to-all fight.

On the morning of July fifth I hired to David T. Beals—or the firm of Bates & Beals, as the outfit was commonly called—to help drive a herd of steers, twenty-five hundred head, to the Panhandle of Texas, where he intended starting a new ranch.

The next morning we struck out on the "Old Fort Bascom" trail, in a southwesterly direction.

The outfit consisted of eight men besides the boss, Bill Allen and "Deacon" Bates, one of Mr. Beals' silent partners, who was going along to locate the new range and O. M. Johnson, the whole-souled ex-rebel cook. We had six extra good horses apiece, my six being named as follows: Comanche, Allisan, Last Chance, Creeping Moses, Damfido and Beat-and-be-damned. The last named was afterwards shot full of arrows because he wouldn't hurry while being driven off by a band of indians who had made a raid on the camp.