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THE STAMPEDE ON THE TURKEY TRACK RANGE

By permission The Cosmopolitan Magazine

Dark. Well, it was dark, and no mistake. We had been holding a big herd of steers for a week. It was on the Turkey Track ranch, and they were mostly Turkey Track steers, that is, they were branded with the Santa Maria Cattle Company's brand, which is a design on each side, called Turkey Track by the cowboys, who never think of using any other means of identifying a cow than by giving the name of the brand she carries.

And en passant when a cowboy says "cow," he uses the word as a generic term for everything from a sucking calf up to a ten-year-old bull.

We were in camp in a noble valley some fifteen miles long by ten wide, dotted here and there by cedar groves, and at that season covered with splendid grass, where we were holding a bunch of steers that the company was getting ready to ship; it was a lazy enough life except the night-work. There was plenty of grass to graze them on in the daytime, and a big "dry lake" full of water, where three thousand head could drink at once, and never one bog or give any trouble. Two men on "day herd" at a time could handle them easily enough, and as there were nine of us, or enough for three guards of three men each, we didn't have anything much to complain of.

"Old Dad," the cook, built pies and puddings that were never excelled anywhere, and occasionally he'd have a plum duff for supper that simply exhausted the culinary art.

The steers were, as the boys say, "a rolicky lot of oxen." Most every night they would take a little run, and it usually took all hands an hour or so to get them back to the bed ground and quieted down, which didn't tend to make us any better natured when the cook yelled, "Roll out, roll out," about 4:30 every morning.

The weather had been lovely ever since we started in, but this evening it had clouded up, and in the west, toward sunset, great "thunder-heads" had piled up and little detached patches had gone scudding across the sky, although below on the prairie not a breath of air was stirring. The muttering roll of heaven's artillery was sounding, and occasionally up toward the mountains a flame of lightning would shoot through the rapidly darkening sky.

By eight o'clock, when the first guard rode out to take the herd for their three hours' watch, it was almost black dark. The foreman or "wagon boss" of the outfit came out with them, asked how the cattle acted, and told the boys to be very careful, and if the herd drifted before the rain, if possible, to try and keep them pointed from the cedars, for fear of losing them.

As we rode back to camp we both agreed that the very first clap of thunder near at hand would send the whole herd flying, and if it rained it would be very hard to hold them. He told all hands not to picket their night horses, but to tie them up to the wagon (much to the cook's disgust), all ready for instant use. Perhaps I should explain a little about this business, so that my readers may understand what a "bed ground" is, and how the cowboy stands guard.

At sunset the day herders work the herd up toward camp slowly, and as the leaders feed along to about three or four hundred yards from camp, one of the boys rides out in front and stops them until the whole herd gradually draws together into a compact body. If they have been well grazed and watered that day they will soon begin to lie down, and in an hour probably nine-tenths of them will be lying quietly and chewing their cuds. All this time the boys are slowly riding around them, each man riding alone, and in opposite directions; so they meet twice in each circuit. If any adventurous steer should attempt to graze off, he is sure to be seen, headed quickly, and sent back into the herd.

The place where the cattle are held at night is called the "bed ground," and it is the duty of the day herders, who have cared for them all day, to have them onto the bed ground and bedded down before dark, when the first guard comes out and takes them off their hands.

Well, as I said at the beginning, it was dark, and although it was not raining when they left camp, the boys had put on their slickers, or oilskin coats, well knowing that they'd have no time to do it when the rain began to fall.

The three men on first guard were typical Texas boys, almost raised in the saddle, insensible to hardship and exposure, and the hardest and most reckless riders in the outfit. One of them, named Tom Flowers, was a great singer, and usually sang the whole time he was on guard. It's always a good thing, especially on a dark night, for somehow it seems to reassure and quiet cattle to hear the human voice at night, and it's well too that they are not critical, for some of the musical efforts are extremely crude. Many of the boys confine themselves to hymns, picked up probably when they were children.

A great favorite with the Texas boys is a song beginning "Sam Bass was born in Indianer," which consists of about forty verses, devoted to the deeds of daring of a noted desperado named Sam Bass, who, at the head of a gang of cut-throats, terrorized the Panhandle and Staked Plains country, in Western Texas, some years ago.

We used to have a boy in our outfit, a great rough fellow from Montana, who knew only one song, and that was the hymn "I'm a Pilgrim, and I'm a Stranger." I have awakened many a night and heard him bawling it at the top of his voice, as he rode slowly around the herd. He knew three verses of it and would sing them over and over again. It didn't take the boys long to name him "The Pilgrim," and by that name he went for several years. He was killed in a row in town one night, and I'm not sure then that any one knew his right name, for he was carried on the books of the cow-outfit he was working for as "The Pilgrim."

I lost no time in rolling out my bed and turning in, only removing my boots, heavy leather chaps (chaparejos), and hat, and two minutes later was sound asleep. How long I slept I can't say, but I was awakened by a row among the night-horses tied to the wagon.

1

 
Last night as I lay on the prairie
And looked at the stars in the sky,
I wondered if ever a cowboy
Would drift to that sweet bye and bye?
 

CHORUS

 
Roll on, roll on,
Roll on little dogies roll on, roll on;
Roll on, roll on,
Roll on little dogies roll on.
 

2

 
The road to that bright mystic region
Is narrow and dim, so they say,
But the trail that leads down to perdition
Is staked and is blazed all the way.
 

3

 
They say that there'll be a big round-up
Where the cowboys like dogies will stand,
To be cut by those riders from Heaven
Who are posted and know every brand.
 

4

 
I wonder was there ever a cowboy
Prepared for that great judgment day
Who could say to the boss of the riders,
"I'm all ready to be driven away."
 

5

 
For they're all like the cows from the "Jimpsons"
That get scart at the sight of a hand,
And have to be dragged to the round-up,
Or get put in some crooked man's brand.
 

6

 
For they tell of another big owner
Who is ne'er overstocked, so they say,
But who always makes room for the sinner
Who strays from that bright, narrow way.
 

7

 
And they say He will never forget you,
That He notes every action and look.
So for safety, you'd better get branded,
And have your name in His big tally book.
 

The storm had for the present cleared away just overhead, the full moon was shining down as it seems to do only in these high altitudes in Arizona; not a breath of air was stirring, and I could hear the measured "chug, chug, chug," of the ponies' feet as the men on guard slowly jogged around the cattle. I was lazily wondering what guard it was, and how long I had slept, when suddenly the clear, full voice of Tom Flowers broke the quiet with one of his cowboy songs. It was set to the air of "My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean," and as I lay there half awake and half asleep it seemed to me, with all its surroundings, that it was as charming and musical as the greatest effort of any operatic tenor.

 
"Last night as I lay on the prairie,
And looked at the stars in the sky,
I wondered if ever a cowboy
Would drift to that sweet by and by."
 

The voice would swell and grow louder as he rode round to the campside of the cattle, and as he reached the far side the words "sweet by and by," came to me faintly and softly, as if the very night was listening to his song.

 
"The road to that bright, mystic region,
Is narrow and dim, so they say,
But the trail that leads down to perdition,
Is staked and is blazed all the way."
 

I had never heard Tom sing this song before, nor had I ever heard him sing so well, and I raised on my elbow to catch every word:

 
"They say that there'll be a big round-up,
Where the cowboys like dogies¹ will stand,
To be cut by those riders from Heaven,
Who are posted and know every brand."
 

Here an enterprising steer made a sudden break for liberty, and the song was stopped, as Tom raced away over the prairie to bring him back, which being done in a couple of minutes, the song was again taken up:

 
"I wonder was there ever a cowboy
Prepared for that great judgment day,
Who could say to the boss of the riders,
I'm all ready to be driven away."
 

Another interruption which I judged from the sounds was caused by his pony having stumbled into a prairie-dog hole, and I think Tom was "waking him up," as the boys say, with his heavy quirt.²

 
"And they say, He will never forget you,
That He notes every action and look,
So for safety you'd better get branded,
And have your name in His big 'tally-book.'
 
 
"For they tell of another big owner,
Who is ne'er overstocked, so they say,
But who always makes room for the sinner,
Who strays from that bright, narrow way."
 

As the closing words floated out on the cool night air, I turned sleepily in my bed and saw that a huge black cloud had come up rapidly from the West and bid fair to soon shut out the moon. I snuggled down in my blankets, wondering if we would have to turn out to help hold the steers if it rained, when the silence of the night was broken by a peal of thunder that seemed to fairly split the skies. It brought every man in camp to his feet, for high above the reverberation of the thunder was the roar and rattle of a stampede.

It is hard to find words to describe a stampede of a thousand head of long-horned range steers.

It is a scene never to be forgotten. They crowd together in their mad fright, hoofs crack and rattle, horns clash against one another, and a low moan goes through the herd as if they were suffering with pain. Nothing stands in their way: small trees and bushes are torn down as if by a tornado, and no fence was ever built that would turn them. Woe betide the luckless rider who racing recklessly in front of them, waving his slicker or big hat, or shooting in front of them, trying to turn them, has his pony stumble or step into a dog-hole and fall, for he is sure to be trampled to death by their cruel hoofs. And yet they will suddenly stop, throw up their heads, look at one another as if to say, "What on earth were you running for?" and in fifteen minutes every one of them will be lying as quietly as any old, pet milk cow in a country farm-yard.

They bore right down on the camp, and we all ran to the wagon for safety; but they swung off about a hundred feet from camp and raced by us like the wind, horns clashing, hoofs rattling, and the earth fairly shaking with the mighty tread.

Riding well to the front between us and the herd was Tom trying to turn the leaders. As he flew by he shouted in his daredevil way, "Here's trouble, cowboys!" and was lost in the dust and night. Of course all this took but a moment. We quickly recovered ourselves, pulled on boots, flung ourselves into the saddle, and tore out into the dark with the wagon boss in the lead. I was neck and neck with him as we caught up with the end of the herd, and called to him: "Jack, they are headed for the 'cracks.' If we get into them, some of us will get hurt." Just then, "Bang, bang, bang," went a revolver ahead of us, and we knew that Tom had realized where he was going, and was trying to turn the leaders by shooting in their faces.

These cracks are curious phenomena and very dangerous. The hard adobe soil has cracked in every direction. Some of them are ten feet wide and fifty deep, others half a mile long and only six inches or a foot wide. The grass hides them, so a horse doesn't see them 'til he is fairly into them, and every cowboy dreaded that part of the valley.

Jack and I soon came to what, in the dust and darkness, we took to be the leaders. Drawing our revolvers, we began to fire in front of them, and quickly turned them to the left, and by pressing from that side crowded them round more and more, until we soon had the whole herd running round and round in a circle, or "milling," as it's called, and in the course of fifteen or twenty minutes got them quieted down enough to be left again in charge of the regular guard.

Jack sent me around the herd to tell the second-guard men to take charge, as it was their time, and for the rest of us to go to camp, which was nearly a mile distant and visible only, because "Dad," the cook, had built up the fire, well knowing we wouldn't be able to find camp without it.

Before we got there the rain began, and we were all wet to the skin; but we tied up our ponies again, and five seconds after I lay down I was sound asleep and heard nothing till the cook started his unearthly yell of "Roll out, roll out, chuck away." I threw back the heavy canvas, that I had pulled over my head to keep the rain out of my face, and got up. The storm was over. In the East the morning star was just beginning to fade, and the sky was taking that peculiar gray look that precedes the dawn and sunrise. The night-horse wrangler was working his horses up toward camp, and the three or four bells in the bunch jingled merrily and musically in the cool, fresh, morning air.

We were all sleepy and cold, and as we gathered around the fire to eat, some one said, "Where's Flowers?" The foreman glanced around the circle of men, set down his plate and cup, and strode over to where Tom had rolled out his bed the evening before. It was empty, and, what was more, hadn't been slept in at all. A hasty questioning developed the fact that none of us had noticed him after we had come in from the stampede.

"Well," said Jack, "it's one of two things: either he has run into one of those blamed cracks and is hurt, or else he has a bunch of steers that got cut off from the herd in the rain and has had to stay with 'em all night, because he got so far from camp he couldn't work 'em back alone." As this was not an unusual thing we all felt sure it was the case, and after a hasty breakfast, all of us but the men just off guard, struck out to look for him.

Some way I felt a premonition of trouble as I rode out into the prairie, and leaving the rest to scatter out in different directions I rode straight for the cracks. It was an easy matter to trail up the herd, and as I loped along I couldn't get the song out of my head. As I drew near the crack country I saw by the trail that we had not been at the leaders when we thought we were, but had cut in between them and the main herd. I could see our tracks where we had swung them around, leaving probably one hundred head out.

I hurried along their trail, and as the daylight got stronger and the sun began to peep over the hills, I could make out, about a couple of miles from me, a bunch of cattle feeding. I knew this was the bunch I was trailing, and already some of the other boys had seen them also and were hurrying toward them. But, between me and the cattle was, I knew, a dangerous crack. It was some six feet wide and ten deep, and probably half a mile long. If Tom had ridden into that he was either dead or badly hurt. As I neared the crack my heart sank, for I saw the trail would strike it fairly about the widest place, and my worst fears were realized when I reached it, for there lying under a dozen head of dead and dying steers was poor Tom. The trail told the whole story. He had almost turned them when they reached the crack, and he had ridden into it sideways or diagonally, and some twenty steers had followed, crushing him and his horse to death, and killing about a dozen of them. The balance were wandering about in the bottom of the crack trying to get out, but its sides were precipitous everywhere.

Drawing my six-shooter, I fired two shots, and rode my pony in circles from left to right, which in cowboy and frontier sign language means, "Come to me." The boys quickly rode over to where I was, and we, with great work, managed to get his body out from under his horse and up on top. He still held his pearl-handled Colts in his hand, every chamber empty, and his hat was hanging round his neck by the leather string. Tenderly we laid his body across a saddle, lashed it on with a rope, and taking the boy thus dismounted up behind me, we led the horse with its sad burden back to camp.

I think death, when it strikes among them, always affects rough men more than it does men of finer sensibilities and breeding. They get over it more quickly, but for the time the former seem to be fairly overwhelmed with the mystery of death, and seem dazed and helpless, where the latter would not for a moment lose their heads.

But Jack quickly pulled himself together. It was fifty miles to the nearest town. With our heavy mess-wagon and slow team over a sandy road, it would take two days to get the body there. Packing it on a horse in that hot Arizona sun was out of the question, and so we decided to bury him right there.

Tom had no relatives in Arizona, nor any nearer friends than us rough "punchers," so that no wrong would be done any one by burying him there.

We laid his crushed form under a cedar tree near by, while Jack and I went out to find a place to dig a grave. About half a mile from camp was a big black rock that stood up on end in the prairie as if it had been dropped from the clouds. Some prehistoric race of people had carved deep into its smooth face dozens and scores of queer hieroglyphics which no man today can decipher or understand. Snakes, lizards, deer, and antelope, turtles, rude imitations of human figures, great suns with streaming rays, human hands and feet, and odd geometrical designs, all drawn in a rude, rough way as if the rock had been the gigantic slate of some Aztec schoolboy which hundreds of years of storm and weather had not rubbed out. This rock was called the "Aztec Rock." It was a landmark for miles around, and as Jack remarked: "It was a blamed sight better headstone than they'd give him if we put him in the little Campo Santo,³ in the sand at the foot of the mesa, back of town."

So here we dug his grave, and then we wrapped him in a gorgeous Navajo Indian blanket, and laid poor Tom Flowers away as carefully and tenderly as in our rough way we knew how.

The day-herders had grazed the herd up close to the rock, so that they could be at the grave, the cattle were scattered all around us, and the cook had taken out the mess-box and used the mess-wagon to bring the body over in.

When the last sods were placed on the mound, Jack with tears running down his sunburned face, which he vainly tried to stay with the back of his glove, looked around and said: "Boys, it seems pow'ful hard to plant poor Tom and not say a word of Gospel over him. Can't some of ye say a little prayer, or repeat a few lines of Scripter?"

We all looked at one another in a hopeless sort of way, and no one spoke a word until the youngest there, the "horse-wrangler," a boy from Indiana, whom we had named the "Hoosier Kid," spoke up and said: "I kin say the Lord's Prayer, ef that'll be any good."

"Kneel down, fellers, and take off your hats," said Jack; and there in the bright sunshine of an Arizona day, with a thousand long-horned steers tossing their heads and looking at us with wondering and suspicious eyes, with no sound save the occasional hoarse "caw, caw" of a solitary desert raven idly circling above, that dozen of rough cowboys knelt down, their heads reverently bared, while the "Hoosier Kid" with streaming eyes, slowly recited that divinely simple prayer which we had all learned at our mother's knee, "Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name."

As we rode slowly back to camp the words of the last song that poor Tom ever sang would come to me again in spite of all I could do.

Ah, me. Poor Tom. It's little religious training you got on the prairies, or the trail, or in the cow camp; but if that "Great Owner" looks into the heart, I am sure He found you worthy to wear His brand, and to be cut into the herd that goes up the "trail that is narrow and dim."