TX BIOS:  Robt. W. Keen
   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
   
   Folk Stuff - Rangelore
   
   Gauthier, Sheldon F.
   
   Rangelore
   
   Tarrant Co., Dist. 7 [33?]
   
   Page #1
   
   FEC [?] versions of the hoss sketch
   
   Robt, W. Keen, 73, was born on his father's farm in Dallas Co., Tex.
   His father was a preacher and resided at Spring Creek, where the city
   of Garland is now located. He learned to ride his father's horses at
   an early age while doing the chores. He accustomed wild horses to the
   saddle at 13. His 20 year's range career commenced at 14, when he was
   employed by the Dave Kretrell ranch. His story:
   
   "I was born on June 10th, 1864, on a farm which was my father's home
   and was is Dallas County. It was located at Spring Creek, near where
   the town of Garland is now. Father's chief work was sky piloting but
   he run a farm and owned a good many hosses in addition. I had a
   hankering to do any job that had a hoss connected with it but was not
   so pert on other work. As a kid coming up, I was naturally allowed to
   do work with a hoss, such as riding to the store, going for the mail,
   getting the milk cows, and other work that falls to a kid.
   
   "Father always had plenty of hosses and was changing his herd often.
   It was claimed that for a sky pilot, he was a keen hoss trader. I
   often calculated on how he could mix preaching and hoss trading. Among
   the hosses that he would get were a good number that had snake blood
   in them, and some that never had a tree on his back.
   
   "Because of my father's activities, I had a chance to get plenty of
   play by riding pitchers. I hankered for the work and tackled
   everything that came my way. I was lucky in not getting any bones
   busted in the many spills I received. I must have been especially
   created for the hoss because when I reached 13 years, I was able to
   bust hosses and did that for the neighbors, and did a fair job.
   
   00022
   
   "When I was 14, Dave Kretrell, who's brand was 'Dash L', (-L) needed
   an extra hand to work in a drive of a herd to the Staked Plains. We
   had a small ranch near our farm called the 'Motley Ranch', that he
   used for keeping critters that he bought until he had enough to drive
   to his 'Dash L'. When I heard about Kretrell needing a hand, I got all
   hot up about jining the outfit. Kretrell would not take me on without
   father putting his go sign. Father was not keen on letting me go to
   the Plains because at that time, the Skillet was not reckoned as a fit
   place for a stripling to pasture in. Father didn't want to refuse me
   because as he chinned to me afterwards. He said, 'I calculated you
   would run off anyway to satisfy your hankering.'
   
   "He spoke to Kretrell about the matter and Kretrell said, 'Let the
   buckaroo come on and I'll tell him he can join my outfit on one
   condition, and that is if he can ride. To prove it, he will have to
   ride that hoss, 'Snip'. It is hell on four feet with a stranger. He
   will put the kid [into?] a spill pronto, and that will settle the
   matterf for us, [and?] kill some of the kid's hankering'.
   
   "Father said at the chuck table that night, 'Well, Robert, if you're
   still set on joining the Kretrell outfit, you can go over in the
   morning and go to work if he wants to put you on'.
   
   "I was on the Motley Ranch at the rise of sun the next morning.
   Kretrell put the proposition up to me by saying, 'I can't use a hand
   that can't ride. If you can ride that hoss Snip, I'll take you on.
   Now, I am warning you the hoss has a tolerable lot of snake blood'. I
   had busted some tough critters and was swelled up about my ability so
   I did not back up a bit but [hankered?] to get going.
   
   00033
   
   "We put the tree on Snip and I put a rolled blanket in front behind
   the saddle seat. That acts as a brace and helps you to stay on the
   leather. I mounted when everything was all ready and discovered
   pronto, that the ram rod had told the truth. That hoss was hell on
   four feet. He [hawgrolled?], crawfished, sunperched, and gave me
   several other movements for spare. I stayed with the critter. After a
   couple of minutes, I sloshed off my hat and started to fan the baby
   over the head. The critter soon reckoned that I was able to take his
   gait and settled down. You know, a hoss can sense when he has a rider
   in the tree that can stay.
   
   "I drove it around for a few minutes when the hoss settled down, then
   hit the ground. Kretrell was busting his guts with laughter and said,
   'Hell Kid. You are hired here and now'. That was the start of my range
   life.
   
   "I went on the drive with 2,000 head of critters to Kretrell's ranch
   on the Staked Plains. We drifted those cattle through Parker and Young
   Counties 'til we hit the Brazos River, then followed it until we hit
   Knox County. We drifted Northwest from there to Floyd County, where
   the headquarters were. The dugout, which was all the headquarters
   consisted of, was located where Floydads is now located.
   
   "When we arrived, that was the start of a two year stretch for me,
   during which I never saw a house or a woman. During the latter part of
   the period, the first white woman was born on the plains. It was the
   daughter of Dan Chipply. At that time, the shelter, if any, was
   dugouts. That was what Kretrell used for his headquarters, his office,
   and his sleeping quarters.
   
   00044
   
   "The Kretrell Ranch was like many others of those days. There was no
   bunk house for the waddies, nor cook shack. We lived and slept in the
   open the year round, night and day. We squatted around the chuck wagon
   to eat our chuck, and our location was [where-ever?] we drifted the
   critters for grazing. Our belly cheater, 'Grease Pot', as we called
   him, was good and could make whistle berries taste like something
   mother cooked special. He was a pippin at making sinkers and gun
   wadding. Our chuck run strong to beef and sinkers[,?] Vegetables were
   a scarce article. What we had, in the vegetable line, came in cans and
   the arrivals were far between. Of course, we had plenty of beef and
   that was the fattest yearlings that furnished the meat. He never
   looked at the brand of the critter we killed. We also had wild game
   such as deer, antelope, and buffalo, also fowl that we found in Blanco
   Canyon. We had plenty of syrup and coffee. With thousands of cows
   around us, we had no milk or butter. We used what was called 'Texas
   Butter' in the place of butter, which was bacon grease, or sop which
   was gravy. That was what we lived on and meat was the main chuck.
   
   "Because of the condition of the atmosphere on the Staked Plains, meat
   would not spoil. It cured it'self by drying and would take on a better
   taste and get more tender. After it was cured, it became hard and it
   was necessary to soak it in water before it could be cooked. The cooky
   cut the beef into strips and made jerk. We waddies used it for chuck
   when we were out on a long drag and could not get to the chuck wagon
   at chuck time. I have often thought of how I could whittle off chunks
   of jerk with my knife and chew it to fill my flue while I was out
   looking for strays on a long drag.
   
   00055
   
   "I recall one time when we killed a buffalo and kept some of the meat
   for four months. It was really better at the end of that time.
   
   "The cooking was done over a camp fire which was dug in the ground,
   and an iron grate placed over the hole. Dried buffalo chips, or rather
   buffalo dung, was the fuel used. Over such fire, the belly cheater did
   the cooking and I'll say right here that I would enjoy another broiled
   steak with sinkers and son-of-a-gun stew.
   
   "I never slept in a house or a bed during the spell I was with the
   Dash L. There were 30 of us waddies and we slept and lived the same
   way. We just rolled up in a navajo blanket if it was cold, and used
   our saddle for a pillow. When it rained, we used our slickers for a
   cover over the blanket. I have often been asked about catching a cold
   from sleeping in the open as we did. Well, for some reason, colds were
   the least troubles we had. I do not recall having one cold while
   sleeping out and always felt good. The only time we were disturbed in
   our slumber was when it rained. A rain was a rare thing on the plains.
   
   "Some folks wonder how it was there was such good grazing on the
   plains with such little rain. I want to explain how that is. It is a
   flat country and what water falls, stays there. A few feet under the
   soil is a layer of rock which holds the water. Two inches of rain
   there will furnish as much moisture for the grass as four inches in
   the general run of other countries.
   
   "The cooky had the most trouble when it rained. He would have to deal
   with wet chips sometimes and then is when he did some 00066plain and
   fancy cussing. Of course, he always kept the coonie filled for a wet
   spell but once in a while, he would run out in the Spring of the year,
   and we would have to live on jerk.
   
   "I reckon you don't know what a coonie is so here goes to prattle on
   that. It is made from a cowhide which is stretched under the chuck
   wagon. This forms a pocket which is used to carry things.
   
   "For the most part, the work was pleasant but not so as to blow your
   horn about at times. [?] we run the cattle on the open range and had
   rustlers along with Indians to watch for, there had to be some night
   riding done as well as day riding. [When?] a Norther or a bad storm
   hit, all hands were called out to hold the herd. Six riders rode the
   line each day and night with usual weather. The Indians were for the
   most part, after 'Wohaw'. That is the Indian word for beef. They would
   suddenly run into the herd and yell and whoop to put the critters
   stomping, then withdraw and wait for the strays to show up, which they
   would take for their eating purpose. We had considerable of that to
   deal with.
   
   "Kretrell spent a large part of his time watching for the Indians, and
   he was good at it, too. He would lets us know ahead of time, when to
   expect a visit. Kretrell was quarter Indian and I guess that was the
   reason that he could tell before hand when to expect a call. He knew
   their nature. He would ride over the range, looking for them with a
   spy glass. He could tell by their actions when he spotted a bunch,
   just what they intended doing. Tom Varnell was also a good hand at
   reckoning the visit of the vermin.
   
   "The worst Indian mess that I had to deal with was about six months
   after I joined the outfit. The ram rod came dragging in 00077like a
   nigger going to vote, and giving riding orders. He told us all to get
   plenty of lead in our belts and the heavy artillery out because we
   were due for a call by the vermin.
   
   "I was about 15 years old and never thought much about the Indian end
   of the work. When the ram rod said, 'We are in for a good fight', that
   put me to thinking. I was no coward but there was a hankering for good
   old Spring Creek, Dallas County. I done what the others did, and got
   shaped for the raid. The old rawhides were anxious for the raid, or
   'Put in their appearance', as they said, so we could have a spell of
   fun. [With?] that acting on their part, I took courage and got to
   hankering for a show too.
   
   "It was an hour by sun when Kretrell gave the order. We all stayed
   bunched, excepting the line riders. We kept moving slowly from one
   point to another all that night and it began to appear like our fun
   was not coming off. The moon was bright so we could see. We spied them
   about four A.M., coming on a dead run and making for the herd. We took
   after them and headed them off. We began to throw the lead into them
   as soon as we got into shooting range and they turned to make a drag
   away from there. It was in the open, and the Indian never wanted to
   fight unless he could be under cover, if possible. Kretrell ordered us
   to run them to hell. We kept after the bunch and it was a running
   fight with both parties throwing lead. We waddies had the best of it
   because we were shooting ahead of us and they had to turn on their
   mounts and shoot to the rear. They headed for the Blanco canyon and
   scattered when they reached it. We had put three off their hosses by
   that time, and the boss ordered us to turn back. The Indians could
   hide in the 00088canyon and shoot us from ambush.
   
   "They didn't make a hit with us waddies. We took them by surprise and
   got the three before they could scatter. Tom Varnell and some of the
   boys cut the three Indian's wigwam off-hair and wore it on their
   saddles for a decoration.
   
   "We couldn't always get the Indians. They would get away most of the
   time. As a rule, they would put the herd into a stomp and then drive
   away to wait for strays. It required all the hands when the cattle
   went into a stomp so we would have to let the Indians go.
   
   "The Blanco canyon was a large place and one of the few places in the
   country that good water could be found. Water was one of our troubles.
   There is plenty of water in the Skillet country but most of it is gyp.
   I have gone a whole day at a time without a drink while on a long drag
   hunting strays, or changing the herd to a new grazing ground.
   
   "Stampedes was something that always made a waddy drop his ears.
   Riding to put the herd to milling and stop running is no Sunday School
   doings. I have seen critters put to running by Indians, or by some
   strange animal running among the critters, by a storm, and sometimes
   by their own orneriness.
   
   "The hardest stomp that I ever worked in started from no other cause
   than the meaness of the critters. We were driving 2,000 head of the
   Kretrell cattle from the Motley Ranch to the Skillet Range and had
   arrived at Keechie Valley. The herd had worked up to that point like
   milk cows. About an hour by sun that evening, we allowed the critters
   to graze in some good grass and remain there 00099until they bedded
   down and got as quiet as a bunch of roosting chickens.
   
   "All the waddies were rolled up in their blankets and doing a good
   shuteye job. Of course, the line riders were out and it happened to be
   my trick on the line. About midnight, the critters started to raise
   and the whole herd was on the stomp in five minutes. We calculated
   that not a thing had happened that should cause them to run. Whatever
   it was, put the herd full length into a scare because they kept us
   going all the rest of the night and 'til noon the next day. When we
   did get them critters settled down, it was because they had run
   themselves down. They had scattered out for a distance of 25 miles. It
   took us two days to get them bunched again.
   
   "We lost one waddy, another had his arm broke, and one hoss broke his
   leg. We hunted for Jack Owens. That was the boy that didn't show up,
   and it was the second day of the hunt that we found him. The waddy had
   taken a spill while riding in the dark and in falling, his head hit a
   rock. It appeared that he never [moved?] after he hit the rock. We did
   not know where he was from, or where to find his folks so we buried
   him there in the Keechie Valley.
   
   "The rustlers were as hard on the cowmen as the Indians or the
   stampedes. Them fellows did not rustle cows for beef to eat as the
   Indians did but for the money the critters would bring. The way the
   cowmen in Blanco Valley did when they found brand blotters with a
   bunch of critters, was to administer the naturalizing process
   
   "I saw many hanging from tree limbs, and where there were no tree
   limbs handy, as it was in most of the skillet country, the 001010short
   method was used. We used to call it the, 'Short Course In
   Citizenship'. The largest number that I have ever seen who took the
   short course at one time, were seven man piled up in one ditch. That
   was near the Blanco Canyon. Each one had a '45' hole in him.
   
   "I worked a 10 year stretch for the Dash L, then quit and jiggled over
   to the 'TN' outfit in Hale County. Bob Nelson was the owner. He did
   not run as many cattle as Kretrell. It was near a grease pot outfit
   but we had a bunkhouse and ate our chuck while squatted at a table.
   The work was of the same nature and had the same troubles.
   
   "I hated to leave the Dash L for one more than any other, and that was
   leaving that hoss Snip. He was old for a hoss when I left. About 14,
   but he was a good hoss. From the day I got on with the Dash L outfit
   by riding him, he was my hoss in my remuda. [Outside?] of being a
   little tetchy every morning when I mounted him, it was the best
   working hoss I ever rode, and I rode many in my time. He was a good
   saddle and [?] knowing hoss. When once he was put after a critter
   being cut out of the herd, he stayed right with the [critter?] until
   it was placed where the cattle were being bunched. [hen?] it came to
   roping, he just knew what to do under all conditions. He would spot
   the moment the rope left my hands. If I lost the loop, he would lay
   his ears back and dig out for the critter to put me in a position to
   smear him again without a word from me. That hoss had a rep around the
   Blanco Valley Section for being the top hoss.
   
   "Tom Varnell was the best shot and roper in that section. That boy
   could make a rope land where he wanted it about a critter. Leg, head,
   or tail. About his shooting, well, he just couldn't miss and he was
   fast. He would often practice and have shooting 001111matches. I have
   seen Tom shooting at a mark from a 50 yard distance and put six shots
   in a spot the size of a silver dollar, and do it in less than five
   seconds. He could sure fan that hammer.
   
   "Riding was my game. I improved after joining the Dash L, and became
   the top rider of the outfit. I was calculated to be the best in Blanco
   Valley. I soon got so I could bust the wildest of hosses, using a
   slick saddle.
   
   "While talking about top riders. I do not want to forget Dave Kretrell
   as a top hand. He could locate and get more Indians and rustlers than
   any man I know of. He was like a bloodhound after a runaway nigger.
   
   "After staying with the Nelson outfit for five years, I jiggled to
   many places as a top hoss buster. The game was getting a little rough
   for my age when I got to be 34, so I quit and went back to Dallas
   County where I spent my time farming. I never did quit hankering for
   the range. There is something about riding the range and dealing with
   the danger of a stampede, riding the line at night and expecting to
   see a bunch of Indians that called for a fight, and chasing rustlers.
   All that gets into a fellow's blood. I had more fun in the riding,
   roping, shooting, and other matches that the waddies would hold among
   themselves, than anything else I ever tried for sport.
   
   "I am getting old now and could not meet the requirements but I have
   often thought of what I have gone through with on the range, and would
   like to do it over. After a day's work, the boys would sit around and
   entertain each other with [long?] talk sometimes that brought out the
   lying ability of the waddy. They would tell of riding and roping jobs
   that they had done, or seen others do.
   
   001212
   
   "It has been so long since I heard them that the tales have passed out
   of my mind. I remember one that [cruel?] Face, that is the only name
   that I have ever heard him called by, told about a hoss. He says, 'I
   was working down in the Nueces Country and was needing a hoss for my
   remuda. I smeared one out of the remuda and had a hard time busting
   the critter but finally, the critter turned gentle, and from that time
   on, that hoss picked up the cow work pronto. The hoss got to the point
   where it worked critters alone. If it was calves being cut out, I
   would turn Bill alone after the first one and he would keep bringing
   me calves until I stopped him. He would do that with cows too.
   
   "I had trained Bill to come to me when I whistled, and he never failed
   me. Well, sir. One time we drove into town and I dropped the lines in
   front of a bar. I went into the joint and found it full of greasers.
   They were all drunk and one of them demanded that I buy the drinks,
   which I refused. Pronto, a number of them got the draw on me and had
   me under the drop. I whistled, not thinking about Bill but because I
   was in a tight spot. You know how a fellow will do. I had no more then
   let the sound out when Bill came through that door, a-rearing and
   a-pawing. He took them by surprise and laid them low in a jiffy. The
   hoss then turned to me, took my belt in his mouth, and carried me
   outside. There he set me down and stood waiting for me to mount, which
   I did. He knew we had no pumpkins to roll there just then.

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