Reed Anthony, Cowman | Page 3

had built a log house and opened a few fields, we were
at peace with the earth.
But this happy existence was of short duration. Rumors of war reached
us in our western elysium, and I turned my face homeward, as did
many another son of Virginia. My brother was sensible enough to
remain behind on the new farm; but with nothing to restrain me I soon
found myself in St. Louis. There I met kindred spirits, eager for the
coming fray, and before attaining my majority I was bearing arms and
wearing the gray of the Confederacy. My regiment saw very little
service during the first year of the war, as it was stationed in the
western division, but early in 1862 it was engaged in numerous actions.
I shall never forget my first glimpse of the Texas cavalry. We had
moved out from Corinth, under cover of darkness, to attack Grant at
Pittsburg Landing. When day broke, orders were given to open out and
allow the cavalry to pass ahead and reconnoitre our front. I had always
felt proud of Virginian horsemanship, but those Texans were in a class
by themselves. Centaur-like they sat their horses, and for our
amusement, while passing at full gallop, swung from their saddles and
picked up hats and handkerchiefs. There was something about the
Texans that fascinated me, and that Sunday morning I resolved, if
spared, to make Texas my future home. I have good cause to remember
the battle of Shiloh, for during the second day I was twice wounded,
yet saved from falling into the enemy's hands.

My recovery was due to youth and a splendid constitution. Within six
weeks I was invalided home, and inside a few months I was assigned to
the commissary department with the army in Virginia. It was while in
the latter service that I made the acquaintance of many Texans, from
whom I learned a great deal about the resources of their State,--its
immense herds of cattle, the cheapness of its lands, and its perpetual
summer. During the last year of the war, on account of their ability to
handle cattle, a number of Texans were detailed to care for the army's
beef supply. From these men I received much information and a
pressing invitation to accompany them home, and after the parole at
Appomattox I took their address, promising to join them in the near
future. On my return to the old homestead I found the place desolate,
with burnt barns and fields laid waste. The Shenandoah Valley had
experienced war in its dread reality, for on every hand were the charred
remains of once splendid homes. I had little hope that the country
would ever recover, but my father, stout-hearted as ever, had already
begun anew, and after helping him that summer and fall I again drifted
west to my brother's farm.
The war had developed a restless, vagabond spirit in me. I had little
heart to work, was unsettled as to my future, and, to add to my other
troubles, after reaching Missouri one of my wounds reopened. In the
mean time my brother had married, and had a fine farm opened up. He
offered me every encouragement and assistance to settle down to the
life of a farmer; but I was impatient, worthless, undergoing a formative
period of early manhood, even spurning the advice of father, mother,
and dearest friends. If to-day, across the lapse of years, the question
were asked what led me from the bondage of my discontent, it would
remain unanswered. Possibly it was the advantage of good birth; surely
the prayers of a mother had always followed me, and my feet were
finally led into the paths of industry. Since that day of uncertainty,
grandsons have sat upon my knee, clamoring for a story about Indians,
the war, or cattle trails. If I were to assign a motive for thus leaving a
tangible record of my life, it would be that my posterity--not the
present generation, absorbed in its greed of gain, but a more distant and
a saner one--should be enabled to glean a faint idea of one of their
forbears. A worthy and secondary motive is to give an idea of the old

West and to preserve from oblivion a rapidly vanishing type of
pioneers.
My personal appearance can be of little interest to coming generations,
but rather what I felt, saw, and accomplished. It was always a matter of
regret to me that I was such a poor shot with a pistol. The only two
exceptions worthy of mention were mere accidents. In my boyhood's
home, in Virginia, my father killed yearly a large number of hogs for
the household needs as well as for supplying our slave families with
bacon. The hogs usually ran