The Log of a Cowboy

Log of a Cowboy, The

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Title: The Log of a Cowboy A Narrative of the Old Trail Days
Author: Andy Adams
Release Date: July 1, 2004 [EBook #12797]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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[Illustration: THE STAMPEDE]

THE LOG OF A COWBOY

A Narrative of the Old Trail Days
BY ANDY ADAMS
_ILLUSTRATED BY E. BOYD SMITH_
"Our cattle also shall go with us." --Exodus iv. 26.
[Illustration: The Riverside Press]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK: HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND
COMPANY,
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
_1903_.

TO THE COWMEN AND BOYS OF THE OLD WESTERN TRAIL
THESE PAGES ARE GRATEFULLY DEDICATED

CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. UP THE TRAIL
II. RECEIVING
III. THE START
IV. THE ATASCOSA
V. A DRY DRIVE
VI. A REMINISCENT NIGHT

VII. THE COLORADO
VIII. ON THE BRAZOS AND WICHITA
IX. DOAN'S CROSSING
X. NO MAN'S LAND
XI. A BOGGY FORD
XII. THE NORTH FORK
XIII. DODGE
XIV. SLAUGHTER'S BRIDGE
XV. THE BEAVER
XVI. THE REPUBLICAN
XVII. OGALALLA
XVIII. THE NORTH PLATTE
XIX. FORTY ISLANDS FORD
XX. A MOONLIGHT DRIVE
XXI. THE YELLOWSTONE
XXII. OUR LAST CAMP-FIRE
XXIII. DELIVERY
XXIV. BACK TO TEXAS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE STAMPEDE
MAP SHOWING THE TRAIL
HEAT AND THIRST
MEETING WITH INDIANS
CELEBRATING IN DODGE
STORY-TELLING
SWIMMING THE PLATTE

THE LOG OF A COWBOY
CHAPTER I
UP THE TRAIL
Just why my father moved, at the close of the civil war, from Georgia
to Texas, is to this good hour a mystery to me. While we did not
exactly belong to the poor whites, we classed with them in poverty,
being renters; but I am inclined to think my parents were intellectually
superior to that common type of the South. Both were foreign born, my
mother being Scotch and my father a north of Ireland man,--as I
remember him, now, impulsive, hasty in action, and slow to confess a
fault. It was his impulsiveness that led him to volunteer and serve four
years in the Confederate army,--trying years to my mother, with a
brood of seven children to feed, garb, and house. The war brought me
my initiation as a cowboy, of which I have now, after the long lapse of
years, the greater portion of which were spent with cattle, a distinct
recollection. Sherman's army, in its march to the sea, passed through
our county, devastating that section for miles in its passing.
Foraging parties scoured the country on either side of its path. My
mother had warning in time and set her house in order. Our work stock

consisted of two yoke of oxen, while our cattle numbered three cows,
and for saving them from the foragers credit must be given to my
mother's generalship. There was a wild canebrake, in which the cattle
fed, several hundred acres in extent, about a mile from our little farm,
and it was necessary to bell them in order to locate them when wanted.
But the cows were in the habit of coming up to be milked, and a soldier
can hear a bell as well as any one. I was a lad of eight at the time, and
while my two older brothers worked our few fields, I was sent into the
canebrake to herd the cattle. We had removed the bells from the oxen
and cows, but one ox was belled after darkness each evening, to be
unbelled again at daybreak. I always carried the bell with me, stuffed
with grass, in order to have it at hand when wanted.
During the first few days of the raid, a number of mounted foraging
parties passed our house, but its poverty was all too apparent, and
nothing was molested. Several of these parties were driving herds of
cattle and work stock of every description, while by day and by night
gins and plantation houses were being given to the flames. Our
one-roomed log cabin was spared, due to the ingenious tale told by my
mother as to the whereabouts of my father; and yet she taught her
children to fear God and tell the truth. My vigil was trying to one of my
years, for the days seemed like weeks, but the importance of hiding our
cattle was thoroughly impressed upon my mind. Food was secretly
brought to me, and under cover of darkness, my mother and eldest