TX BIOS:  W. L. (Bill) Dobbs
   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
   
   Pioneer [?]
   
   Phipps, Woody
   
   Rangelore,
   
   Tarrant Co., Dist. 7
   
   Page #1
   
   FEC
   
   [W.L. (Bill) Dobbs, 68?], was born on his father's stock farm in
   Fannin co., Tex., June 21, 1875. When Bill was three years old, his
   father moved his stock and family from Fannin co., to [Stephens co?].,
   Tex, where he formed a partnership with Bill's two uncles, George and
   Henry Black, owners of the famous Muleshoe Ranch. Bill grew up on the
   Muleshoe Ranch, was taught to ride horses at four and helped work with
   the cattle at five years of age. He worked in the roundups before he
   was 12, and was employed as a cowboy on the [?] Ranch in [?] co., when
   he was 14. He was employed on the [?] Ranch in the Texas Panhandle
   when he was 15, but returned to the Muleshoe Ranch the following year,
   where he was employed as a cowboy until he retired in 1935. His story:
   
   "Did you say, 'did I ever ride a wild one?' Why, son, I've rode 'em in
   my time that none of these dudes here at the rodeo could touch with a
   10 foot sapling! Sure, I've rode 'em! Why, when I was just a young
   fellow, we all had to go out and catch 'em wild, right where they
   growed, and tame 'em on the spot. I practically spent my life in the
   saddle, and out on the open range where it takes a man to stay on the
   payroll. You bet! I wasn't born on the range, though. I was born June
   21, 1875, on my dad's stock farm in Fannin county, but was raised on
   the famous Muleshoe outfit in Stephens county, my dad moving
   everything we had out there when I was three years old.
   
   "That's the reason I can't tell you about Fannin county, and where I
   was born, but I can tell you a-plenty about the Muleshoe, where I was
   raised. For one thing, I rode hosses when I was too little even to
   climb up by the stirrups, but had to have some cowpoke to give me a
   boost so's I could get into the saddle.
   
     NOTE: C12 - 2/11/41 - Texas
     
   00022All the cowpokes were right anxious to learn me to ride, so I got
   teaching a-plenty, and by the best riders in the business them days,
   because the Muleshoe had too many cattle to just have a few greenhorns
   messing around. My Uncle, Henry Black, run over 2,000 head in the
   'Upside Down Horseshoe', made like this: . My dad, John Dobbs, ran
   over 1,000 in the 'Right Sideways Muleshoe', made like this: . My
   Uncle, George Black, run around 1,500 in the 'Left Sideways Muleshoe',
   made like this: . And later on, there were other Muleshoe brands, as
   others in the family got a few head. Oh, there was a whole mess of
   them for awhile there. My dad died about 30 years ago, and my mother
   married Amos Atkins, who ran the 'Rail A', made like this: . He owned
   about 30,000 acres in his 'Rail A' spread in Kent county. He still
   owns that place, but I never did know just how many head of cattle he
   ran on it. He finally leased all of the Muleshoe outfit, and runs it
   today. I worked for him myself up 'til 1935, when I quit to take it
   easy. Not that I couldn't take it, but I've saved my money, married a
   good woman, and we just intend to take it easy for awhile.
   
   "Now, I'll get back to myself. Why, I said [?] learned to ride before
   I could even climb up on a broom-tail. Well, sometime before I was
   even five years old. I'd go out with old George Benson, the wagon
   boss, when he went out to the herd where the boys were working. I'd
   ride around here and there, then, while the boys were eating their
   dinner or supper, I'd ride herd on the cattle. Yep, rode herd when I
   wasn't but five years old. 00033"Now, I can't give you an exact
   line-up on just when I roped my first calf and so on; but between five
   and 12, I was taught to work with cattle just like the rest of the
   waddies on the place. And when I was 12, I thought I knowed a heap
   more than they'd ever learn if they stayed in the business 'til they
   had chin whiskers to their knees. And, for a fact, I could ride and
   rope with the most of them, because I stays at it as long's I could
   see. Main reason for that, I suppose, was because I loved to ride a
   hoss and work cattle. I was really in my glory if a hoss pitched with
   me, or if I had some trouble with a dogie. Just anything that could
   happen was apple pie for me because I always wanted to show what I
   could do, if not to the others, to the critters themselves anyway.
   From what they say, I reckon I was pretty hard on the stock, but I got
   a lotta work done.
   
   "My first stay away from home was when I was about 12, or maybe a
   little less. I stayed out on the regular roundup for three months. You
   know, where there's a lot of cattle on a ranch, the critters will
   drift. We'd have to go into four and five counties to roundup the
   Muleshoe stock. [?] around the ranch and on other ranches. In that
   roundup, I slept just like the regular hands. Used my saddle for a
   pillow and my saddle blanket for a mattress. However, I had a good bed
   roll to go over that saddle blanket. Any man that there was anything
   to always had him a good bed roll. The regular way we slept out like
   that would be to find a small rise and throw the flop right on top of
   it. Then we'd take a stick or something, our boots if necessary, and
   drag little ditches down away from our bed, so's if it rained the
   00044water'd wash away from us and not get us all wet. Of course, we
   throwed a tarp over the bed after we got it made, and that was just
   like sleeping in a tent.
   
   "While I was still just a young fellow, the plains had a lot of
   buffalo chips around, and when we couldn't find sticks to build a
   fire, we'd use them chips. Nowadays, the chuck wagon totes a gasoline
   stove, and the cooky can set up and have a meal in the same time as a
   woman can where they have natural gas.
   
   "I always wanted to be around the gang when meal time came, because
   they'd get to talking about old times, and telling tales on one
   another. A lot of kidding went on, too, and I always liked that. Many
   a time I've heard my uncles talk about Indian raids when they first
   came to Fannin county, and other tales about rustlers, and so on, but
   I'll have to skip that because don't remember the important things
   about them. I'll just say that the oldtimers had an awful hard time
   when they first settled here, and had to put up with things you and me
   wouldn't put up with a-tall.
   
   "One of the things that has changed since they first came out there is
   the hoss business. We used to, when I was a kid, go out and trap wild
   hosses right/ out on the range. There wasn't any fences then,
   anywhere, and the hosses ran wild everywhere. Old Mustangs that never
   tamed down like the hosses of today. You'd have to break them all over
   every morning when you caught them up. While they weren't as wild as
   they were when they were first caught, they were rascals. They'd pitch
   and snort around for 10 or 15 minutes every morning, and it'd be a
   small rodeo to be 00055around if you weren't used to seeing it all the
   time. The only difference was when a new hand was trying one out. The
   boys try to slip him a salty one, and he'd try to stay with it just to
   show his mustard. On most of the West Texas ranches of that day, they
   didn't hire you if you couldn't ride the saltiest they had the first
   time you tried out.
   
   "I know that was the way they tried me out when I left the Muleshoe to
   try for a berth on the ULA's in [?] county. It was owned by Jim
   Witherspoon, who ran it. I can't, for the life of me, recall the
   number of head he ran, but it was way up in the thousands. 'ULA' was
   his brand for the stock, though, and Tom Benson was the wagon boss. I
   worked there during the Spring and Fall roundups, then left for the
   [?].
   
   "The [?] spread was so big I reckon it took in eight counties, and was
   cut up into about eight divisions. Each division took in a county. I
   couldn't call off the names of the counties, but I'd be safe in saying
   the [?] was in the Panhandle. I worked in the fifth division, and a
   fellow by the name of Hayden was the ramrod. Thomas Smith was the
   wagon boss, and a better rider and pistol shot never lived than old
   Tom. Just give him a glimpse on what you wanted drilled, turn him
   around two or three times, and he could turn right to it, and drill it
   plum center. He was so good he was a wizard with a six-shooter-a
   wizard for sure!
   
   "I don't reckon any hands ever knowed just how many head the [?] ran.
   There were ways and ways you could figure out a tally, but it was just
   impossible to go in there and round up all the 00066cattle because
   there were about 50,000 head in our division, alone. Yes, 50,000; and
   there were eight divisions. I was on the spread a whole year, and seen
   new cowpunchers right along that had worked there for a long time. I
   know for a fact that I never seen anything like a third of the
   cowpunchers on that spread.
   
   "I was back at the Muleshoe for the next Spring roundup, after my year
   on the [?]. Glad to get back, too, because they put me on the payroll.
   That was the reason I left in the first place, because I wasn't
   drawing money, and I was doing the work the top hands done. I don't
   recollect the salary I drawed when I come back, but all in all, salary
   being gauged by the beef prices, I've drawed from $10.00 a month to
   $160.00 a month. You see, there'd been times, and recently too, that
   the price of beef wasn't as much as it cost to ship it somewhere to
   sell it. Of course, when the cattlemen lost money just on shipping
   beef, they naturally didn't ship it, and when they didn't have any
   money coming in, they tried not to let too much of it go out at a
   time.
   
   "I don't mean to let you think the cowmen didn't have the guts. They
   had the guts to do anything. My Uncle George Black, I seen him get in
   the way of a speckled, blue roan bull, that was mad and trying to
   catch somebody. If that bull'd caught him, he'd have gored him for
   good, and left him for dead. Now, anybody that's ever had much to do
   with cattle, know [?] that when a critter is coming at you, if you'll
   fall on the ground and roll towards it, it'll jump over you and you
   can get away. 00077Uncle George fell and rolled towards the bull, but
   the bull didn't jump. Instead, he started pawing the ground. Quicker'n
   the eye could follow the move, he jerked his six-shooter out and
   pumped five shots in that bull's belly before you could say 'Jack
   Robinson'. The bull sorta shook his head, walked to his left for about
   10 feet, then dropped over dead. Many an old-timer will remember this
   when they see it, and I know Uncle George has told lots of them that
   didn't see it, because he was so well known that lots of them asked
   him about it. It was a good show, alright.
   
   "That's something about the range. There's always something happening
   that puts on a show. Ol' Nigger Cal was a good a rider as ever you'd
   see, and he was throwed by a hoss he rode every day for several years.
   It was this way: Early one morning, when all the cowpunchers were out
   roping their hosses and saddling them, Nigger Cal had his roped and
   saddled before the most of them had theirs. His hoss was a-standing by
   the corral fence, and another hoss bucked over to where they were.
   Nigger Cal's hoss bucked right straight up, and Cal lit on top of that
   eight foot corral fence. After he lit, he rolled off into the corral
   where the other hosses were trying to get away from the ropes, and
   darn nigh got killed before he could climb that fence and make his
   get-a-way.
   
   "Now, I'll tell you one on myself. That same mare, a cutting hoss and
   a good one at that, hadn't been used for a couple of weeks before the
   Spring roundup one year, and was a little stale. I expected to have to
   let her buck for awhile, and was working with the saddle when she
   jumped around and kicked me right between the 00088shoulder blades.
   Now, it/ probably couldn't happen again in a hundred years, but she
   kicked me in such a way that I went almost straight up and lit in the
   limbs of a [mosquite?] tree. I was scratched up quite a bit and went
   around all humped for a couple of weeks, before I got the kinks out of
   me again.
   
   "There's one more thing, then I'm through. I made a lot of drives, but
   never made a drive like the first big drive I made. Just before I went
   to the [?], my Uncle Henry decided to drive 5,000 head over into the
   Territory (now Okla.) one Spring, on account of the grass shortage.
   The grass was good over there, and we started out. [Well?], I'd never
   seen any Indians to speak of, and just after we got over the line
   there, somewhere north of where Vernon is now, our herd ran right
   through an Indian village, and it was [??] to boot. Well, the first
   thing I knowed about it was when I rode right up to an Indian tepee
   (you know, they all lived in tepees in them days) and I saw about 15
   Indians in that bunch. I didn't know whether to run, shoot, or just go
   straight up. They didn't say anything, either, but just stared. I
   can't make you feel the way I felt then, and I just know that you
   couldn't have bent my hair any way because it must have been straight
   up and stiff as a board. One of the Muleshoe oldtimers, old Bill [?]
   (and he lives right here in Fort Worth now), he rode up behind me and
   said something to them in Indian. They never smiled, but grunted, and
   everything seemed to be alright. I never did get over my scare,
   though, and was ready to ride at the drop of a hat. Not towards them
   redskins, either.
   
   "Then, to top it all off, about 20 Indians, [?] Parker in 00099the
   bunch, came over to the chuck wagon and had dinner with us. The men
   folks joked around, and after quite a bit of talk, we went on our way.
   
   "Stampedes? I've been in a hundred, I guess. You're bound to have
   stampedes any time you've got a herd gathered up. Not every time, but
   a lot of times you will. You see, they'll run at the least little
   scare. Why, a saddle can make a noise, a rabbit can jump up and run, a
   skunk can show up, or any little old thing can happen, and they're off
   like a shot out of a gun.
   
   "Any time it rains, whether it's midnight or spang up noon, the herd
   will be a little skittish. Then, those electric storms, for which West
   Texas is noted, they make the herd's stomp. I can't say as I blame the
   cattle because the heat of their bodies draws the lightning bolts
   right down to them. Why, one time I seen an electric storm in daytime,
   when we had around 1,500 head in a herd about four or five miles west
   of Crowell, and the bolts just skipped around over the herd, knocking
   four or five out, and then three of them were killed. That same time,
   one of the cowpunchers riding herd on that bunch was knocked clean off
   his hoss and unconscious, by a bolt. It was a wonder he wasn't killed
   because another cowpoke riding herd on another herd about the same
   distance east of Crowell was killed on the same day and in the same
   way. Those electric storms are something to be reckoned with, and yet,
   you couldn't hardly ride off and leave the herd to itself.
   
   "Now, about the first barb wire fence I ever saw: My Uncle Henry
   fenced a hoss pasture in Stephens county, and lots of people hollered
   about that because they didn't want any fence 001010in the country.
   You know, they kept the Swenson and Campbell fences cut for 10 years
   out there before they could get one to stay up. The ranchers just
   didn't want any fence in the country, and felt that fences would ruin
   every cattleman.
   
   "I'm just in to see the fine cattle here in the Stock Show right now.
   I don't live here, but still live in the old Muleshoe. I saved my
   money while I worked, at least the last years I did and that's what
   we're living on now.

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