TX BIOS:  J. P. Benard, Tarrant CO. TX
   Selected and converted.American Memory, Library of Congress.
   
   Washington, 1994.
   
   Preceding element provides place and date of transcription only.
   
   This transcription intended to be 99.95% accurate.
   
   For more information about this text and this American Memory
   collection, refer to accompanying matter.
   
   U.S. Work Projects Administration, Federal Writers' Project (Folklore
   Project, Life Histories, 1936-39); Manuscript Division, Library of
   Congress.Copyright status not determined.
   
   00011
   
   [Folkstuff - Rangelore?]
   
   Phipps, Woody
   
   Rangelore
   
   Tarrant Co., Dist.#7
   
   Page 1
   
   [FEC?]
   
   J.P. [Benard?], 65, living at 501 Lipscomb St., Fort Worth, Tex., was
   born Jan. 10, 1873, in one of the two log cabins his father built on a
   section of land he settled in 1869. These two cabins are still
   standing and are on the same site, 18 miles west of Weatherford,
   Parker co.,Tex., and on the [Brazos] River Front. Benard's father sold
   the farm in 1877, to move eight miles west where be established a
   stock farm. Benard learned to ride horses and do cowboy work on this
   place before his father sold it and the 1,500 head of cattle he had
   accumulated, to the Hill Bros., who operated a ranch in Parker co. He
   then moved the family to a section a few miles south of [Gordon?], in
   Erath co., and established another stock farm. Later, be established a
   saloon in Gordon. Six years later, Benard's father died, and he
   married Rachel Rexroat seven months later. Immediately following his
   marriage, he left the range to stay. His story:
   
   "I was born Jan. 20,1873, in a log cabin, and on an unfenced range.
   Yes sir, [there?] wasn't a fence to be seen in the whole country where
   it's all fenced up now; and, if a man wants to go some place, he has
   to follow a road and go in a round about direction to reach the place
   he's aiming for. The log cabin I was born in was one of the only two
   houses in that part of the country when they were first built. My dad
   and [grand-dad?] came from Jamestown, Ky., in '69, and built these two
   places, besides digging an 80 foot well. Both the cabins and the well
   can still be seen on the original spot, about 18 miles west of
   Weatherford, Tex., and not 15 feet from the Brazos River. This first
   place was a 160 acre tract my dad filed on when he first came, but he
   moved on up on the Kickapoo Creek when I was about four years old.
   
   "[My?] first recollections are about the place on the Kickapoo, and,
   are about an Indian raid and fight. My mother and I were out
   00022penning a few milk cows when she noticed them getting awful
   skittish, jumping around and flapping their [ears?]. My mother had
   heard a lot of things about Indians and knew that they used to come
   down in that part of the country, but they hadn't been down there for
   years. She decided not to take any chances and sent me on to the house
   with my little old dog, while she finished the penning. I ran on, and
   by the time I reached the house she had caught up with me and went in
   with me. She slammed the door just as we heard running hosses coming
   our way. She then put a peg under the door, so's it couldn't be shoved
   in without a little trouble, and got her cap and bail rifle off the
   wall. After getting it in her arms, she took to watching out of one of
   the peep holes, which I'd already been doing, and we both saw five
   Indians ride by on their hosses, just whooping it up. They never even
   slowed down.
   
   "Along a bout dusk, a couple of hours after the Indians had gone by,
   dad came in from Weatherford, where he'd been on business. He told us
   that if it hadn't of been for us closing the door and shutting the
   window, then redskins would have scalped us, because he'd heard they'd
   already raided several places to the south of us and carried off
   hosses. He figured that because there were only five of them, and no
   extra hosses with them, that there were more of them somewhere else.
   
   "Late that night, after we'd gone to bed, a man knocked on the door
   and called dad's name. When dad got to the door, he asked who it was,
   and the man told his name. He was a family friend, and by all that's
   holy I ought to be able to tell you his name 00033as soon's I could
   tell my own , but I just can't do it. Well, he told dad that those
   Indians had carried off his racer, a Black Kentuckian, and he
   deputized dad to help him catch the rascals. They decided to leave a
   couple of hours before daybreak, and them went to bed. I was asleep
   when they left, but dad told me all about the fight any number of
   times afterwards.
   
   "Dad said the Indians were camped at Turkey Roast on [Lost?] Creek,
   about six miles from our place. They got there just after the Indians
   had finished eating their breakfast and were getting up in a hurry.
   Dad said he believed they heard him coming and were trying to get
   away, because the youngest one of them, a lad of about 18, was already
   on the black racer when dad and his friend sighted them.
   
   "The hosses were at the river's edge, drinking, when dad and his
   friend opened fire. His friend's first shot got the young fellow, and
   he fell off into the creek, where he's been ever since, because nobody
   ever took him out after that. Two of the others managed to get on
   their hosses and got away, but the other two fought back. Dad told me
   that over 24 arrows fell around him while be was shooting at them
   redskins, and not one of them ever even skunt him. He himself killed
   the two who stayed to fight, and after he'd got the last one, he and
   his friend just drug them together and made a crisscross of their
   bodies, then rode off after the two who got away. They got blood
   alright, for they saw it on the ground for about two miles, then they
   lost the trail some sort of way. That was the last Indian fight and
   raid in 00044Parker county that I ever heard of.
   
   "A sort of a humorous thing happened a couple of years later. Dad made
   a stock farm out of the place on the Kickapoo, and by hard work and
   making and selling moonshine likker, he managed to get a sizeable herd
   of cow critters together and had to hire some cowboys to help handle
   the work. He hired old George Brown, a fellow named Gable and another
   by the name of Moore. Moore and Gable were seasoned cowpunchers, as
   tough as they came, and really knew their cows. They always carried
   whips on their saddles, and used them on the cattle when needed. Dad
   noticed that they had bone-handle whips, and he stopped to examine one
   of them one day. You can imagine his surprise when he found that those
   handles were human bones! It finally came out that Moore and Gable had
   found where the Indians had been piled, and had picked themselves out
   some god whip handles. The upshot of it was that dad went over there
   himself and got a good bone for a whip for himself. I kept his and
   Gable's whip around with me for years after dad died, but one of my
   roomers swiped them when he moved away in the middle of the night, and
   owing me a couple of months rent besides.
   
   "Gable was sure good to me. He was a regular hoss buster and hunted
   wild hosses in the woods all the time, or wherever he could find
   traces of them. That was one of the main reasons dad hired him,
   because he needed hossed to work the cattle; and if he didn't get a
   man who could bring them in, he'd have to buy up his hosses from some
   ranch. Old Gable taught me to ride. He'd hold me on a hoss 'til I got
   the knack of staying in the 00055saddle, then he let me go. He was the
   one who got dad to buy me a little old pony and a light lasso. While
   he also taught me the business of roping things, he couldn't get dad
   to change his mind about roping anything heavier than I was 'til I was
   a lot older. That was because if I didn't really know my onions and
   how to use my hoss to help me hold cow critters, they'd drag me off
   and maybe turn on me and stomp me. Of course, he was right, but it
   sure grated my soul not to be able to go out there and do like the
   rest of the cowpunchers. I did do the rest of the work, like riding
   herd, standing night watch, tending the irons when we were branding,
   and other jobs. Dad's iron was the 'Circle OU', and made like this: .
   I never knew just how many head he had at anyone time 'til he sold out
   later on. He was always adding to his herd, and then driving cattle to
   Fort Worth or Red River, where they were shipped. When he drove to Red
   River, they were always shipped to Oklahoma City. I don't know where
   they went when he drove to Fort Forth.
   
   "After I got to be 11 years old, dad said I could go to roping calves
   and yearlings. He was awful careful with me, on account of Gable's
   [accident?], and always telling me I'd end up like Gable did. I reckon
   I was about eight when Gable had his hard luck. He roped a yearling,
   and his hoss reared at something right when it should have pegged;
   that is, sat down. Instead, he reared and throwed Gable off. That
   wouldn't have been so bad, but he hit a stump and the stump broke some
   ribs. These ribs pressed on his heart, some way or other,, and he
   didn't live but a few hours after he was thrown. He's have been
   00066killed right off if it hadn't of been for a nigger cowpuncher
   working for Jim Hart, who ran a ranch right next to ours, saw him get
   pitched off and helped him. The nigger told us that he saw the hoss
   pitch him off, then drag him around a clump of cedars. Gable's foot
   was caught in the stirrup. The nigger reached him after the hoss had
   took him around twice. We buried him in our front yard, alongside my
   grand-dad, who had died a year or so before. We had to because we
   didn't know where to send his body. He never got no mail, never went
   to town, was always out of sight when strangers came to the place, and
   never told anything about his past life. That looks like a perfect
   build-up for a man on the dodge, but I don't guess I'll ever know now.
   
   "I do know this, though, Old Gable was better to me then my own
   parents, and acted like a dad to me at all times. He let me hang
   around when he was busting wild ones, and taught me the tricks of the
   trade to where I could stay with a pretty salty bronc before I was 12
   years old. Another thing, he taught me to shoot straight and fast,
   too. He could whip out a sixer faster than any other man I ever saw.
   I'm including those whom I've seen in shows and other places, like
   circuses, and so on. He was a natural when it came to handling guns.
   
   "Before I was 12, I was also able to rope some pretty tough critters,
   my first being a little old spotted yearling. I roped him in front of
   my dad, and showed him that I had what it took to handle them. He
   cautioned me to be careful, but go ahead and work like the rest of the
   boys done.
   
   "By the time I was 13, I was riding the wild ones with every 00077bit
   the ability Gable showed, and I was never thrown but twice in my life.
   The first time was after I'd gentled one, and had rode him up to the
   gate to the house yard. I was just fixing to get down and open the
   gate when Brown rode up behind me to go in at the same time. His hoss
   shied at something or other, and my hoss just went right straight up.
   Well, I wasn't fixed and I came off. Brown caught him and turned him
   into the house lot.
   
   'The next time like to have turned out bad for me because he was a
   killer. Dad was helping me snub, and after he turned the hoss loose
   and got out of the way, I jerked the blind and away we went. I stayed
   right with him, though, 'til he tried a certain jump with a twist I'd
   never seen before and wasn't expecting. That throwed me, and the hoss
   turned around to stomp me. I was flat on my stomach with the wind
   knocked out of me, and the hoss could have easily stomped me flatter'n
   a hot cake if dad hadn't of shot him.
   
   "Those two hosses were the only two that ever throwed me, but I had
   one to stumble with me one time, and I sure like to have been branded
   for the eternal range. [?]! buy that was close! I reckon I had just
   turned 14 when dad had his men roundup his cattle and add the sale
   cattle to the herd he'd just bought from the other ranches roundabout.
   We done that, and drove 1,500 head of mixed, two to four-years-olds to
   Fort Worth.
   
   "We parked the herd on the hillside, just east of Hemphill St. That
   was done in the day when there wasn't a house there, and there wasn't
   even a street out that way. There'd been a lot of water fell just
   before this, and the whole flat from where the street is to the
   railroad tracks was under water. There was even 00088a few inches of
   water over the tracks. Well, we had to wait for the water to go down
   and the railroad company to get us some cattle cars before we could
   load them at the little old shipping point the T.P. had at the east
   end of the old depot. The day after we parked the herd, there come the
   gosh-awfullest rain and thunderstorm I guess I ever saw. And
   lightning! There were just big streaks of it and it looked to us like
   every streak hit the earth and struck something. I don't recall
   whether it did now or not, but on real bad flash set the herd a-going.
   It was already skittish as the very mischief, and just waiting for
   something to run from. All of a sudden, they started, and ran towards
   the water in the flat. They were going to try and get on the other
   [side?].
   
   "I'd been in a number of stampedes before, and had seen how the
   stopping was done, so when I happened to be closest to the water, I
   was the only one in a position to reach the leaders and try to turn
   then into a mill. I rode my hoss right out there like a veteran, and
   did get in front of the leaders, but just when I got where I could do
   the most good, my hoss stumbled! Now, I'll tell you that there's far
   better places to be than in front of a stampeding herd that wouldn't
   think nothing of stomping you right into the ground, especially if
   your foot was hung in the stirrup like mine was.
   
   "The hoss fell on his side and my foot was caught. The only saving
   part about it was that I was on the far side from the herd, and the
   leaders couldn't keep from seeing the hoss fall. I don't know how come
   them to do it, but they split around the 00099hoss which was trying to
   get back up, and the rest of the herd kept splitting the same way 'til
   the last critter passed by. By the time the stragglers passed, my hoss
   was back up, I was in the saddle, and we were riding towards the main
   herd. I'd heard some shots while I was in that mess, and it was one of
   the cowpunchers dad had hired extra to help drive the herd to Fort
   Worth. He shot over four of the leaders, and turned the herd into a
   mill right at the water's edge. Right in the nickle of time, I'd say.
   
   "The other bad stampede we had, the boys didn't even try to stop it,
   and I didn't either. Instead, I jerked my saddle off and held it over
   my head. I'll tell you why. We had a little over 500 head on those
   same flats I was telling you about, and there came up of those sudden
   ['Northers?] Texas is noted for. Well, there was a big draw down there
   this side of the tracks, and we got in there to start a fire. Pretty
   soon, there came some hailstones down, [bigger'n?] any I've ever seen,
   before and since. Them stones were so big, they killed about 75 head
   out of the herd. You see, cattle turn their backs to any wind, or
   rather, their tails, and their soft spot is up just behind their horns
   and ears. That's where you slug one when you kill it. These stones
   would hit there, and the critter would drop. [Seem's?] it sort of
   lightened up, the whole shebang stampeded south. I reckon it took us
   over 15 hours to round the herd up again and straighten it out.
   
   "I talk to these here boys in the neighborhood sometimes, and they
   just can't hardly believe that the ground they live over was once a
   holding ground for cattle that came into Fort Worth for shipment. Why,
   I can pick out of places where I 001010throwed my flop and slept, and
   today, there's houses on pieces of ground too small for even a hoss
   corral, that are worth more than whole ranches used to cost. I never
   have stopped wondering at the growth of this town. Out there where
   T.C.U. is, I once woke up with over a foot of snow covering the
   ground, and I went to bed with the stars shining and not a cloud in
   sight. Had to push the snow away so's I could see out from my flop.
   Another thing, too, the winters used to be colder, and more water used
   to fall, rivers used to stay up for several weeks at a time, where
   to'ay they're hardly ever even up over a couple of feet.
   
   "I guess I was a little over 15 when dad missed a few hoss from the
   range. He decided to take his hands and go west a few miles, and maybe
   discover some with his brand blotted into something else. Since that
   was a dangerous job to do, as it meant a killing any time you hung the
   deadwood on somebody for rustling. You'd either get killed, or you'll
   kill one. If you had the difference with you and you won the argument,
   the rustler would probably be naturalized, or made an honest citizen.
   Sort of the way they make good Indians out of Indians, only this was
   usually done with a rope whereas the other was just shoot them and let
   'em lay.
   
   "We got out past [Brackenridge?] a ways, and [?] and behold! We came
   to the edge of a wooded strip and there was about 15 head of buffalo
   grazing away as if nothing at all was wrong with that. I'd never even
   seen one before, because the Government had had them all killed out
   before I was even born.
   
   "Moore literally had to hold me to keep me from barging 001111right
   out there and shooting all I could. The men talked around a little
   about this, thinking that maybe this was a private herd and maybe
   belonged to somebody, but they finally decided to bag all of them they
   could. Now, here's where the queer part of the thing comes in. My dad,
   a notoriously bad shot, always carried my grand-dad's old blunderbuss
   with him everywhere he went, instead of the regular guns carried by
   other cowpunchers. This old gun was a buffalo gun that grand-dad had
   used when everybody in the country was trying to see just how many
   head of buffalo they could shoot. The men decided to get together, and
   all work this gun who didn't have powerful rifles, and Brown rode
   through the timber to reach a draw that ended up just the other side
   of the herd.
   
   "We all got ready, and when Brown showed up the way he done, the herd
   stampeded right towards us. Dad had him a rifle rest, and when one of
   them came in close enough, he got him. The rest of the herd stopped
   and went to milling around the one that was down, and dad got in three
   more good shots. [As?] a rule, a buffalo herd was supposed to mill
   like that 'til the last one was shoot, but this one didn't. They
   started running again, and away from the spot we were in. I gave my
   oldest boy the knife I used in skinning them critters. We took their
   hides, and a lot of meat, and then come on back home. We had meat for
   quite a while, although I can't say that I liked it better than the
   beef I'd been used to. The hides [?] made into overcoats and chaps. A
   buffalo hide will almost outlast a man because they're tougher than
   iron. 001212"I reckon I was around 16 when dad decided to sell out and
   go for some other range. He had a little over 1,500 head, and was
   having a little trouble over his whiskey making. It seemed to me like
   somebody didn't want him to make it, and was, fighting him over it. It
   wasn't the Government, but somebody. He'd made a lot of money in it,
   and there's still a few old-timers around Fort Worth who bought and
   drank his moonshine. I can round up 10 or 12 of them in a day's time.
   
   "He sold out to Hart Brothers, who already had a ranch in Parker and
   just north of the Hood county line. They had over 4,000 head in their
   'Heart' iron. You make it just like a heart. Buck Hart and Frank Hart
   were their names.
   
   "The other ranchers around us were Jim Hart, who ran over 1,500 head
   in the 'U Heart' iron. You made a lazy heart, one that was laying
   down, and put the U inside it the same way to make his iron. He sold
   out the next year. Just cleaned up the stock and sold it to the Harts,
   then sold his land and iron to J.E. Estes, who ran a ranch north of
   [Lost?] Creek.
   
   "Jim Russell had a pretty good sized ranch, but he didn't run all
   beef. He run around 2,000 head of beef, 500 head of hosses, 800 hogs,
   600 goats, and 400 sheep. His place was about a mile northwest of us,
   and on the Little Sunday Creek. The 'JR' was his iron.
   
   "There was another ranch dad done some business with at times, but it
   was in [Palo?] [Pinto?] county. Jeff and [Don?] Cowden ran about 1,000
   head in their 'JR' iron on that place. Dad bought from them, but they
   bought more from dad. They'd buy up enough 001313to make a drive, then
   they'd drive to Red River or to Fort Worth the same as we done.
   
   "Then we moved, we located just south of [Gordon?], in Erath county.
   Dad established a stock farm there, and run the 12 head that he saved
   out of his 'OU Circle' to over 1,000 head in a few years. Of course,
   that 12 head didn't bring that many. I don't mean that a tall, but "a"
   bought with money he made from peddling his moonshine and money he
   made in his saloon he opened up in Gordon, right after he got the farm
   going. Another thing, any Maverick we [found?], we branded him right
   on the spot. Dad had sold his 'Circle OU' iron, so his new brand was
   just 'OU',without the overhead circle.
   
   "Yep, seemed like dad was around likker all his life, and I don't
   believe I ever took over half a dozen shots in my life. I never did
   smoke, and the only time I ever tasted tobacco was when somebody had
   used the drinking cup just ahead of me. There were always some loose
   women around his saloon, but that never brothered me, either, and I
   was at an age then when they bother a fellow the most.
   
   "Dad died about six years after he opened the saloon up. Died when I
   was 22 or 23. I guess I married my wife about seven months after he
   died. Her name was Rachel Rexroat, and we lived together about 30
   years. She was the one who caused me to give up the range and come to
   Fort Worth, where I could get a job paying something. I went to work
   for the T.P R.R., and they sent me to Mingus. After around 35 years
   for the T.P. and other railroads, I got into other work around here,
   and now run this 001414rooming house here. I'm not much good for
   nothing else now, but that, I guess.

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