Cowboy Life on the Sidetrack

I raised a window in her bedroom with some difficulty, as I wanted to air the room a little, for I had made up my mind to sleep in that bed that night in those haunted rooms and convince superstitious people that I at least wasn't afraid of ghosts. I tried to get my little boy to sleep in there with me, but with pale cheeks and staring eyes and chattering teeth he begged so hard that I didn't insist on it. I have always been thankful that I didn't oblige him to stay with me that dreadful night.

When I retired, about 8:30 that evening, with my dog and gun into the haunted rooms I was very tired from my long drive from the railroad, and setting the lamp on a stand at the head of the bed and putting my six-shooter under my pillow I called my dog to the side of the bed and laying down with my clothes on, pulled some blankets over me, blew out the light and immediately went to sleep.

How long I slept I know not, but was awakened by my dog who was whining and licking my face. When I first woke up I didn't remember for a moment where I was, but the next moment heard a long-drawn sigh across the room from me and could hear somebody walking on the carpet. I bounded up and had just lit the lamp when I heard someone open the door from the parlor into the hall, and the next moment heard an agonizing cry for help in the hall. I now grabbed the lamp and my six-shooter and running through the two parlors opened the hall door suddenly, just after hearing the second cry for help, and found that the hall was absolutely empty, the doors at each end still being locked, and the door that led into the servants' part of the house was also locked from my side of the hall, as I had locked it when I went through to go to bed.

I went back into the two parlors and sleeping apartments and searched them thoroughly, even the wardrobes and clothes closets; tried all the windows, but there was no trace of any living person's presence. I then noticed my dog. He had crawled under the bed and was lying there whining in the most abject terror. I dragged him out and kicked him a couple of times and told him to "watch them." But apparently he'd had all the ghost business he cared about, for he lay at my feet trembling and whining. Disgusted with him, I laid down again, thinking I would blow out the light, but be ready with my six-shooter and some matches and catch whoever it was prowling around that house, trying to hoodoo the place.

I hadn't any more than laid down and blown out the light before my dog was trying to get out of the window back of my bed and whining piteously, and then I heard a woman crying in the same room with me and coming slowly towards my bed. I began to get nervous, but scratched a match and in the flickering light saw that the room was absolutely empty. But as the match went out I heard someone run through the parlor, open and shut the door into the hall, and then heard a long despairing cry for help in a woman's voice. I plucked up the little courage I had left, ran to the hall door, opened it, and, lighting a match, gazed up and down that empty hall, seeing nothing or nobody. But as the match flickered and went out there came a breath of cold air right in my face, and then out of that black darkness, seemingly right at my shoulder, arose that awful blood-curdling cry for help again, and as my blood froze in my veins my dog answered the cry with one of those long, despairing, drawn-out, mournful howls that dogs always give as a premonition of death in the family. I tottered back to the bed and vainly tried to light a match, but was too nervous; then hearing that light footstep and that rustling presence coming from the hall through the parlors again towards the bed, I dropped the match and pulling a lot of blankets and bed covers over my head, I huddled down in a heap and lay there trembling with fright and horror till the next morning, when I heard my boy pounding on the outside of the window and calling me to breakfast.

No money would have induced me to have stayed another night on that ranch, and getting an offer next day for the cattle, I sold them. Five years afterwards I saw a man who had come by The Cattle Queen's ranch and he said nobody lived there. The house and barns were all out of repair; the fields overgrown with weeds and an air of desolation to the whole premises. The administrator had finally sold the property for a song to an easterner and he moved his family up there in the day time. He had to go back to town that night for another load of his goods, and when he returned to the ranch the next day, he found his wife roaming around the fields a raving maniac, and she is still in the asylum in South Dakota. They say the Cattle Queen's ghost still keeps entire possession, and will till her murderer is punished for his crimes.

CHAPTER XIX.

Packsaddle Jack's Death

Packsaddle Jack had got tired of filing off wrinkles one night, and, not being sleepy, walked on ahead of the special till he came to a sidetrack. Lying down there on the embankment he went to sleep and caught a violent cold, from which he never recovered. It settled into a bad cough, and the wrinkle dust seemed to aggravate it. Still he insisted on taking his regular shift in spite of our remonstrances, and the harder he coughed the harder he'd file. As the motion of filing and coughing is almost the same, he seemed to make better time coughing when he was filing, and vice versa, but finally he became so weak that he couldn't leave the way-car any more, and we knew it would be a question of a very few days till old Packsaddle would be swimming his bronk across the River Styx. He became very quiet and thoughtful those days – seemed to do a heap of studying – and one bright, sunny afternoon he called me over to his corner of the way-car and told me he had a dream the night before and it made such an impression on him he wanted to tell it to me.

He said in the start of his dream he seemed to be there on the way-car planning how much he could possibly get out of what cattle was left when he got to Omaha, when it seemed all of a sudden there was a mighty well-dressed cowpuncher riding a big paint hoss and leading another all saddled and bridled came right up to him and says: "Packsaddle, come with me." He said the stranger had on a big Stetson hat, a mighty nice embroidered blue shirt, with red silk necktie and white fur snaps, high-heeled boots, and a pearl-handled .45 six-shooter. He was riding Frazier's famous Pueblo saddle, had a split-eared bridle and was rigged out every way that was proper. Said he asked the stranger where he wanted him to go, and the stranger told him they was going to a country where there was no sheep or sheepmen; where the grass grew every year; where the cattle was always fat; where they drove their cattle to market place of shipping them; where hard winters, horn flies, heel flies and mange was unknown. He said the stranger made such a square talk he finally made up his mind to go with him, although he had some doubts, not knowing the fellar. So getting on the led hoss, he was kind of surprised to find the stirrups just his length and the saddle just fitted him.

He said they started off kind a slow at first, in a little jog trot, but directly got to loping, and finally, after crossing a lot of mean-looking country, they came to a big river and his guide told him they had got to swim their horses across it as there was no bridge. The stranger said lots of smart men had tried to build a bridge across this river, and some people had deluded themselves into thinking they knew of a bridge that they could get across on, but always when it came to crossing they couldn't exactly locate their bridge and had to plunge in with the crowd. Packsaddle said it was a mighty ugly-looking stream. It was wide and deep and looked like it was rising. The water was black as ink and the waves out toward the middle was rolling mountain high. Still there appeared to be people all along the shore, a-plunging in and starting for the other side. There was a large crowd scattered along and most of them didn't seem to see the river till they fell off backwards into it. They would be laughing and cutting up, with their backs to the river and all of a sudden get too close; a little piece of bank would crumble off, and with a despairing cry they disappeared beneath the black waters and was seen no more. Some apparently mighty rich people dashed up with carriages and servants, and taking a sack of gold in each hand would offer that to the river, thinking probably they wouldn't have to cross if they offered it some gold. But of all the people who came to the river, only a very few ever turned back, although most of them seemed to want to. He noticed a few that looked like farmers' wives who came up, and soon as they saw the river a smile of content came on their faces and they slid into the boiling water as naturally as though it was wash-day. There was a class of men, too, who came up with a determined look on their countenances, and without the slightest hesitation plunged into the awful stream and struck out for the other side. These men all had cowboy hats on, and when Packsaddle asked his guide who they were, he said they were cowmen who had been shipping their cattle to the Omaha market, and their cattle had starved to death on the stock-yard transfer waiting to be unloaded.

Some there was that looked like pettifogging lawyers and cheap politicians, who, when they arrived at the river, flourished a handful of annual passes over different lines, looking for a pass over the river, but not getting it, turned back and wouldn't cross, and the guide told Packsaddle that he guessed this class of people never did cross, as they seemed to get thicker every year.

Packsaddle said at first he kind of hated to cross the river, as his guide said none ever returned, and he couldn't see the other bank very plainly, and was in some doubt as to what kind of a country was on the other side, although there was hundreds of big, fat, red-faced looking men, dressed in black, standing along the shore where he was, telling everybody what kind of a country was on the other side. They differed a great deal in their description of it, but that was probably on account of what different people wanted. All these black-robed, fat-looking rascals got money out of the crowds and seemed to be doing a thriving business by fixing up people to cross and giving them encouragement. Most all of them was selling some kind of a patented life-preserver to wear across the river, and each one shouted out the merits of his life-preserver till their noise drowned the roar of the river, and they tried to get lots of people to cross the river that hadn't got anywhere near the bank, just to sell them a life-preserver.

Packsaddle had noticed all these things as they waited on the bank a moment, and then, he said, they plunged their hosses in and started swimming for the other side. The other bank, he said, was sorter obscured by a mist or fog, and he didn't see it till most there, but saw worlds of all kinds of people struggling in the black water of the river. Packsaddle said his hoss swam high in the water, never wetting the seat of his saddle, and he felt just like he was getting home from the general roundup. When they struck the bank there was a bunch of cowboys helped his hoss up the bank, gave him a hearty handshake all around and made him welcome every way. When he turned around to thank his guide that gentleman had vanished, and the cowboys told him his guide was a regular escort across the river for cowmen and cowboys; that most everybody had to get across the best way they could, but cowmen and cowboys always had a good hoss to ride and a guide; that one reason for this was that they was most always mighty good to a hoss and thought a heap of them. They said, though, that there was a lot of boats with cushioned seats, and mighty comfortable, that brought over the poor old widder women and farmers' wives and orphan children that had been abused and starved till they just had to cross the river to get away.

Packsaddle said it looked like a mighty good country, lots of fat cattle, the finest hosses he ever see, lots of cowboys laying under the mess-wagon bucking monte and everybody winning, while the roundup cooks had pots and bakeovens steaming with roast veal, baking powder biscuits and cherry roll. He said the boss of one of these outfits hired him on the spot, and giving him a string of fat hosses to ride, he picked out a black pinto with watch eyes and saddled him. Soon as he got on this hoss it started to buck and he said he dreamed that hoss throwed him so high that he saw he was coming down on the other side of the river and it disgusted him so he woke up.

Packsaddle was very weak when he got through telling his dream, and after taking a drink of water he told me he thought we was all making a mistake trying to make money raising cattle. He'd heard about some place in the East where they just issued stock, place of raising it, and that certainly must be the place to go. He'd heard of two or three men, probably stockmen, who get together in New York City, issued just millions of stock in one day, and he was satisfied that was one thing made our stock so cheap. For himself, he said, he liked that country he saw in his dream and thought he'd go there pretty soon.

While we were talking the head brakeman came in and said there was a cow dead in the car next the engine. Packsaddle gave a gasp or two, and when I bent down over him he whispered he would go and round her up; and when I looked at him again he was dead.

Poor old Packsaddle! His early life had been embittered by the discovery that a married woman (whom he was in the habit of visiting in the absence of her husband down in Texas where he was raised) was untrue to him, and on meeting his rival at the lady's house when her husband had gone to mill with a grist of corn, he promptly filled his rival's anatomy full of lead and came away in such a hurry that he had to borrow a jack-mule and packsaddle from a man that was prospecting, and rode this packsaddle to Wyoming, and thus acquired the euphonious name of Packsaddle Jack. Although he was cheerful at times, yet the memory of this woman's perfidy to him cast a gloom of melancholy over his after life which was never entirely dispelled. He never whined when he lost his money bucking monte, always had a good supply of tobacco and cigarette papers of his own and never failed to pass them around. While he didn't have much love for women or Injuns, he loved a good hoss and twice owed his life to his hoss when he had a brush with Cheyenne Injuns in early days in northern Wyoming.

In a burst of confidence a few days before his death he told me he had endured the worst kind of hardships all his life. Winter and summer he had lived on the plains and in the mountains without shelter, by open campfires, lots of times without much to eat; had been hunted and shot at for days and nights by Cheyenne Injuns and never met with the privations and discomforts he had on this trip. And as for slowness, he said he hired out one time in Texas when he was a boy, to help drive 900 tame ducks across the swamps of Louisiana to New Orleans to market; said the trail was so narrow that only one duck at a time could walk in it and sometimes no trail at all, just high grass and swamp brush, and yet they beat the time of a cattle special away yonder.

THE SPIRIT OF PACKSADDLE FOLLOWS THE DEAD COWA stock train was waiting on a sidetrack one dayFor gravel trains going some other way;And as they waited the cattle grew old,The stockmen grew haggard, the weather turned cold.Their stomachs were empty, they were starving in fact,While the stock train was waiting on its lonely sidetrack.The reports said the markets were lower each day,While the cattle grew thinner, the stockmen grew grey.An old, grizzled cattleman spoke up at last,Said he to the cowboys, "The time it is past,To make mon out of cattle or get any dough,This going to market by rail is a little too slow."The railroad companies' tariffs get higher each year,Their passes get fewer, till I very much fearThat ahead of our stock train we will have to walkAnd wait for the cattle train to get up our stock."Let us up and be doing and build a big merger trust,And sell stock to suckers and let them go bust,And for every steer issue millions of shares,Let other people worry how to get railroad fares."We will issue bonds and certificates and thus raise our stock;In place of breeding Shorthorns we will make a swift talk;Have our shares all printed in red, green and gold,Sell them in the stock market to the young and the old."And thus live by our cuteness and work of our brainsIn place of starving on special stock trains.We will have servants and waiters, the best in the land;Governors and princes will give us the glad hand."Just then the front brakeman stuck in his head,Saying in the car next the engine an old cow was dead.The old cowman gave a gasp and his spirit started to rideTo round up that old cow that in the front car had just died.

CHAPTER XX.

A Cowboy Enoch Arden

Just after leaving North Platte, a train of immigrants on their way from Oregon to Arkansas with mule teams went by us, and we found they had a letter for us from Eatumup Jake, who had returned to Utah long ere this to look after his domestic matters. One of the reasons why he abandoned us was to return and look after the education of the twin boys. However, the main reason was that so many reports had come to us from travelers in wagons and sheepherders trailing sheep east, who had come through our neighborhood in Utah, who said that all our friends had given us up for dead, and Eatumup Jake's wife, after putting on mourning for a proper season, had begun to receive the attentions of a widower, who was part Gentile bishop and part Mormon elder.

As Jake was in a hurry when he started back home, he bought him a cheap mustang in place of accepting the transportation which was urged on him by all the principal officers of the railroad. He wrote us that when he arrived on his ranch, his wife was out in the hayfield putting up the third crop of alfalfa. She was driving a bull rake, hauling it into the stack, while one of the twins was driving the mower and the other twin was doing the stacking. The half-breed Mormon-Gentile bishop was standing round with a cotton umbrella over his head, giving orders. Jake's wife didn't know him at first, he had changed so, but the bishop tumbled to him at once and started to leave. However, Jake overtook him and persuaded the bishop to turn aside into a little patch of timber with him, and Jake getting the loan of the umbrella in the painful interview that followed, he left most of the steel ribs of the umbrella sticking in the anatomy of the bishop, and then let the house dog, with the help of the twin boys armed with their pitchforks, assist the bishop clear off the ranch. This was so much better than the old style of Enoch Arden business that Dillbery Ike made up a little rhyme about it after we got Jake's letter, and here it is:

In Utah a cattleman got married in the glow of summer time,Married a buxom Mormon girl, warm heart and manner kind.And as the autumnal sun began to tinge things red,He rounded up his cattle herd and to his bride he said:"Come hither, dear, and kiss me and sit upon my lap,For I am going a lengthy journey with my cows and steers that's fat.I'm going on the Overland with a special, long stock train."His bride, she wept and trembled and said, "I'll ne'er see you again.O Jake, my darling husband, give up this wrong design,If you must go east with cattle, then try some other line,For I have heard the stockmen talking and this is what they say,That if you drive your stock to market, that then there's no delay.But if you get a special train, the railroad has a knackOf letting you do your running when your train is on a sidetrack.Some stockmen they have starved to death, and others grow so oldThat none knew them on their return, so frequent I've been told."But Jake was young and hearty and his mind was full of zealTo load his beef on a special and eastward take a spiel.So he started with his steers and cows in the golden autumn time.Some neighbors also loaded theirs; the cattle were fat and fine.But they run the stock on the Overland, so slow and awful bumThat stockmen get old and care-worn, staying with a special run.Their wives get weary waiting for hubby's coming homeAnd flirt with the nearest preacher who drops in when they're alone.Jake's wife was no exception, and, as time went by, she said,"If Jake was alive I know he'd come back; he surely must be dead."The good woman put on mourning and mourned for quite a time,But when thus she'd done her duty, she suddenly ceased to pine,And when a Gentile-Mormon preacher dropped in one night to teaShe put on her new dress of gingham and was chipper as she could be;Had him eating her pies and jellies that she knew how to make,Had him sit in the easy rocker, without ever a thought of Jake.And when the twins got drowsy, she packed them off to bed,Sat and played checkers with the bishop, just as though poor Jake was dead.When she jumped in the preacher's king-row, and had eight men to his five,She cared not (she was so excited) whether Jake was dead or alive.But at four o'clock next morning, she roused from sleep with a scream;She'd seen Jake pushing behind a stock train in this early morning dream.And that evening when the lusty preacher came hanging around again,He got but a scanty welcome, for she thought of the special train.For a time she was silent and thoughtful, the dream an impression had made,She could still see Jake pushing the special, as it slowly climbed the grade.Now we know how the brave-hearted Jake with the stock train had to stay,How he camped by her side night times as on a sidetrack she lay.We know how he pushed so manfully whene'er she climbed a hill,In fact every one pushed, even the sheepmen, Cottswool and Rambolet Bill;How hunger and famine o'ertook them as slowly they crawled along,Their hearts almost broke with home-longing when Jackdo sung a home song.Eyes filled with tears that were unbidden, hearts o'erflowing with pain —No pen can paint their sorrow as they stayed with this special stock train.The passing of poor old Chuckwagon, who slowly starved to death,On account of the smell of the sheepmen, he couldn't get his breath;Their camping ahead of the special after they had buried Chuck,The washing away of the sheepmen, who surely were out of luck.They lived in snow huts on the mountain that's known as Sherman Hill,Where the last was seen of the sheepmen, Cottswool and Rambolet Bill;Their arrival at the Windy City that's known as the dead Shyann,Some things about Burt and Warren and mayhap another man.And now with their party diminished by old age, privation and death,They still kept plodding on eastward, what of the party was leftTill Jake talking with wandering sheepmen, who had trailed by his cabin home.Heard of the scandalous preacher, who came when his wife was alone;Heard of the nightly playing of checkers when the twins were safely in bed,About his wife all the neighbors were talking, her claiming that Jake was dead.Finally through very home-sickness, he started to take the back track,And because he was in such a hurry, he rode all the way horse-back.Arriving in sight of his meadows, a-waving fresh and green,The alfalfa growing the highest that Jake had ever seen;Two red-headed boys the hay were pitching; their mother was hauling it in.There was only one blot on the landscape that made Jake feel like sin.'Twas our Gentile-Mormon bishop in the shade of his old umbreller.With his long-tailed coat and eye glasses, he looked like Foxy Quiller.When Jake got close to the bishop he booted him out the field,The house dog and twins, with their hayforks, finished making the elder spiel.Then Jake gathered his family around him, work was laid by for the day,They told all their joys and their sorrows, so I've finished my lay.MoralThe old-fashioned Enoch Arden story was a tale well told;I can't approach or rival it, nor make a claim so bold.But the ending of my cowboy Enoch Arden I really like the best,For he fired the interloper out the modern Arden nest.

CHAPTER XXI.

Grand Island

Before we arrived at Grand Island we learned from Jackdo that most cowmen unloaded their cattle there and drove them back and forth through the stockyards awhile in order to accumulate a large amount of mud on them. This Grand Island mud is very adhesive and once steers is thoroughly immersed in it the mud sticks to them for weeks and helps very materially in their weight. A shipper told him that before he stopped at Grand Island he used to wonder what cattlemen meant by filling their cattle at Grand Island, but now he knew it was filling their hair full of mud. Sometimes he said the mud was a little too thick, kind of chunky and fell off, and sometimes it had too much water in it and drained off, more or less. But when it was mixed just right it would settle into their hair like concrete cement. It's quite dark in color, fortunately, and if they've had a rain it is easy to get pens where you can immerse your cattle all over and thus make them the color of the Galloways, which is the most fashionable color for cattle in the market.