Uvalde County, TX - Bios:  A. Ben Kinchlow

TX BIOS:   A. Ben Kinchlow, Uvalde CO. TX

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   U.S. Work Projects Administration, Federal Writers' Project (Folklore
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   00011
   
   5684 words
   
   EDITORIAL FIELD COPY
   
   by
   
   Mrs. Florence Angermiller, P.W.
   
   Page 1
   
   232
   
   Range Lore and Negro
   
   Cowboy Reminiscences
   
   before and after 1875
   
   UVALDE COUNTY, DIST. #15
   
   [md;]
   
   REFERENCE:
   
   A. Ben Kinchlow, age 91, Mulatto who was cowboy and horsebreaker of
   the Rio Grande country in early days. Uvalde, Texas
   
   [Aug 23
   
   WORKS PROCESS?]
   
   "You know my mother was a slave an' was give her freedom an' sent to
   Mexico when I was about a year old. We stayed in Mexico all of ten
   years befo' we came back to this side. I went to school with a French
   family over there in Mexico. My mother was half-white an' my father
   was a white man. But, she went to work over there an' sent me to
   school some, but after I got to ridin', I forgot all I ever knowed
   about school. I don't care how rough a hoss is, if he can stand me, I
   sure can stand him. I can get my hoss saddled in the mornin' an' when
   I throw my leg over his back, I never move my legs, but ride all day
   like that, sittin' straight.
   
   "I commenced workin' for McNally (Capt. McNally of the Rangers) in '72
   an' worked about eighteen months. I was about nineteen years old when
   I joined with him an' I couldn't draw State pay because I was under
   age. Then when I was about twenty-one, I began punchin' cattle. For my
   first ridin', I broke a mule an' rode 'im bareback. I didn't care
   nothin' about a saddle. About the year of '75 was the time when I was
   into my work good. I done all kinds 00022of cow an' hoss work, but of
   co'se, after I got to doin' real cattle punchin', I had to have a
   saddle. My first job was breakin' hosses an' when I got hard down to
   breakin' 'em, I broke sixty-two head on one ranch for Jim Merryman. He
   give the "21" brand an' the Widow Burk give the brand. I don't know
   where they got the idea for the brands but they always figger up a
   brand that wont blot; separate letters, you see. Now, Mexkin brands,
   them's the awfullest brands you ever see. Here, now, if I can draw
   some of 'em is the way they look: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.
   
   "I caint remember who all the brands belonged to but Number 2. was the
   brand Julian Cantu give. Number 5 belonged to Balerio Solis an'
   Antonio Cano run Number 6. Wheneverthey wanted to describe a brand,
   they couldn't call it a name; they had to get down an, mark it on the
   ground. If a man rode up in them days to ask you if you seen sech an'
   sech a brand, he would have to either get down an' mark on the ground
   or mark on the saddle skirts.
   
   "I used to get four-bits a head for every Maverick I roped out an'
   branded. You know people couldn't get out to brand up all their stock
   and after the calves were a year old, they were considered Mavericks.
   They had quit their mother, then. Yes, instead of brandin' 'em up for
   myself, I got four-bits a head to make the other man rich. Well, I
   didn't want nothin' them days but a pair of boots, a six-shooter an' a
   big hat. As for saddles, they was rigged with the pure old rawhide.
   Nearly ever'thing them days was made of rawhide. Our riatas were made
   of rawhide an' 00033we had another rope we used for ropin' that was
   called 'cabresto.' It was made out of hoss tails an' manes. The first
   outfit I ever had they furnished it to me. You see, we made most of it
   ourselves, all 'cept the old saddle tree an' we rigged it up with
   rawhide. We would jes' kill a big yearlin, an cut it half in two an'
   make our leggins. In rainy weather, we would have to commence takin'
   up our rawhide stirrups an' in dry weather, we'd have to begin lettin'
   'em out. That's because when rawhide gets wet it stretches so bad.
   Anyhow, we had a pretty good outfit. We could rope any big bull or cow
   that come along. I wore these reg'lar old Mexkin spurs with a sort of
   short shank but a big rowel. I carried a .45 six-shooter. We had to
   wear our guns all the time an' we tucked 'em down in our belts under
   our leggins. We carried guns mostly for the Indians, but lots of times
   they was dirt done that the Indiana didn't do.


   "I've been pretty close to outlaws, but I always tried to keep out of
   their sight if I knowed they was near. I seen Wes Hardin at Stockdale
   once but he was a preacher then. He was an outlaw befo' he began
   preachin'. Now, them Staffords an' Townsends, they was sure bad men.
   They would kill you right now, but they didn't make a practice of
   goin' aroun' an' killin' people like Billy the Kid did. But they'd
   sure kill you if they had a cause. About the worst killin' I ever seen
   in my roun's happened over in Mexico across from Brownsville. I seen a
   Mexkin an' Nigger run together right on the plaza an' the Nigger cut
   the Mexkin nearly in two with a kind of knife you call a tranchete. It
   had a foldin' blade with two sections an' made a kind of hook when it
   opened out like this: When the 00044Nigger come 'round with it in his
   hand, he cut the Mexkin wide open an' the Mexkin's bowels fell out. He
   held 'em up with his hands an' walked a whole block befo' he fell.
   Them was mean knives. You know the Mexkin women used to use 'em when
   they follered the soldiers into battle. When the troops made an attack
   on a town, the soldiers went ahead an' these women -- they was the
   soldiers' wives mostly -- they came right behind 'em an' durin' the
   gun-fire when the troops were fightin', the women ransacked the
   houses. They were as dangerous an the men an' they used these
   tranchetes a lot.
   
   "I don't believe I ever sold a hose of my own raisin' for less than a
   hundred dollars. I had a 'steal-dust' hoss named Hondo. He was a steel
   color. I worked cattle on him an' roped on 'im too. He was one of
   these single-foot hosses an' could travel seven mile an hour. He could
   catch a cow or hoss better'n any other animal I ever had. He was kind
   of bred up, part race stock. I never did start after anything I
   couldn't ketch on 'im. Jes' anything that stayed on the green.
   
   "I remember one awful fast pony I had. I guess he was the fastest hoss
   I ever rode as a cowboy. I could ketch a cow in a hundred yards easy
   unless it was dense an' brushy, then it took longer. Some hosses was
   good after cattle an' some wasn't. I rode so many mean ones, it was
   all fun to me. About the meanest hoss I ever rode was when I went up
   the trail with Old Man Sol West. That hoss was a little bit of a black
   an' was in my mount. Ever' time I saddled 'im an' went to put my foot
   in the stirrup, he'd rear up an' fall back'ards. One day at noon when
   we was changin' hosses, Mr. Jim King was settin' down, up-side the
   00055wagon wheel readin' a paper. I was right out in front of him
   foolin' with that hose an' I had a loaded quirt -- an iron-handled one
   -- an' I put my foot in the stirrup an' I had 'im kind of caught in
   the bit with my left hand an' my right hand on the saddle. He reared
   up and fell over an' when he got straight, I aimed to hit 'im over the
   head with the quirt an' he dodged. Well, sir, that handle of the quirt
   come down glancin' an' I hit 'im in the eye an' knocked it out. The
   eye flew away out there close to Mr. King. He never saw what took
   place an' I said, 'Mr. King, look here at that hoss' eye!' An' he
   said, 'What done it?' So I said, 'Well, I knocked it off with the rope
   when I had the rope in my hand an' it caught over his eye somehow.'
   Mr. King never did know the differ'nce, but he said, 'What become of
   the eye?' An' I showed it to 'im layin' over there by 'im. That hoss
   was so mean, Mr. King wouldn't have cared much if he'd seen me knock
   his eye out. Of co'se I hated it, but you know, that broke 'im. He
   never did try no more tricks with me.
   
   "I had a dun hoss in the same outfit an' it happened in the same year.
   We was goin' up the trail. It looked like ever' time it come that
   hoss' time to be rode, the wind was blowin'. I would have a time
   gettin' my saddle on 'im. There was a big lake called 'Bad Water' an'
   it was jus' a plum lob-lolly on top. We was camped there. Fin'ly, I
   got the dun hoss saddled an' got on 'im an' he got his head turned
   toward that lob-lolly an' pitched right into it. He got in that stuff
   an' couldn't get out or he couldn't pitch to do no good an' I jus'
   whipped 'im an' rode 'im. Sometimes he was belly-deep, up to the
   saddle skirt. Under the soft stuff on top 00066the bottom was firm.
   After that you couldn't ride 'im near a dark-lookin' place that looked
   like a mude hole. That broke 'im from hitchin' an' he was plumb
   gentle. Muddy! When me an' that hoss come out of that lake, you
   couldn't tell what we was. But the boys them days didn't mind anything
   like that.
   
   "On that same trip, they was a black mare in our remuda (re-moo-tha,
   meaning the herd of horses taken along with the cattle on a long drive
   to serve as fresh mounts for the hands) that brought a colt an' that
   little scoundrel got to where he would leave the remada when the
   hosses come to camp an' he would run to the wagon an' get somethin' to
   eat. He'd eat anything they give 'im, like bacon rinds, briskets,
   sugar or anything. Once our wrangler (the man in charge of the horses)
   took sick an' I took his place. Im drivin' the hosses, I noticed that
   little colt would trail behind the remada, so I got the hidin' beside
   the trail right where I knowed he'd be comin' along an' I'd lay my
   rope down on the ground right across the trail an' jus' when he got to
   it an' was about to step over it, I would jerk it up an' you never say
   a little fella jump so high. I sure would have fun out of 'im. You can
   teach things like that to play with you an' they will have so much fun
   as you do. I raised a wild pig once an' you know when I got it fat, I
   used to play with it an' it would jump aroun' an' run an' hunt you
   like a dog.
   
   "They was one thing I was put in this world for was to judge a hoss. I
   can tell when I look at 'im whether he is any account or not. In the
   same outfit that I knocked the hoss' eye out, we left a ranch in
   Victoria County an' I bet you they would be two-hundred-and-fifty
   Mexkin hosses to cull out, an' I bet they was three differ'nt herds
   when we was classin' out them hosses. We 00077rode there for about a
   month. They was an openin' out in front of the pens en' we'd pen them
   hosses in that corral, an' I don't care what hoss you roped, you had
   'im to ride. You'd saddle 'im in the corral an' get on 'im an' thy
   would open tha gate for you' an' there would be several line riders
   away out from the pens in that openin' to catch the hosses that got
   away with the saddles on. I was sho' lucky. I never had one of them
   hosses to throw me. I don't say it because it's myself, but th' never
   was a hoss that ever throwed me out of my saddle. I don't mind 'em
   pitchin' no more'n nothin'. A hoss could outwind me now but if it
   wasn't for that, no hoss could throw me. I used to have wind enough to
   stay with the meanest an' toughest, but of co'se I caint do it now.
   
   "Out on the Sol West ranch, th' was a ranch hand there, a colored man
   or yellow nigger, by the name of Armstead Bankhead. We was gettin' our
   hosses out of the pen an' he roped a hoss for me to ride. Mr. West
   said, 'Armstead, since you roped that hoss, you better ride 'im; an'
   so Armstead got on 'im an' the hoss made two or three jumps an' off
   Armstead went. He tried it again an' off he went. Fin'ly, Mr. West
   asked 'im if he wanted to try it again, but Armstead said, 'No, I
   caint ride that hoss!' I'd been standin' aroun' watchin' it, so I
   said, "Take your saddle off an' let me show you how to ride that hoss,
   Armstead!' An' he did. Did that hoss pitch? My goodness! But I rode
   'im down. We was headed for Nebraska that trip, I believe, an' we
   turned the outfit over to another bunch up on the South Platte River.
   
   "It's the prettiest sight on earth when you have a big herd of cattle
   on the trail an' get 'em to grazin' if a person knows how to shape 'em
   up. You can ride along an' watch 'em go up a 00088low hill an' it
   looks like every steer is takin' the same step an' a mouthful of grass
   at the same time. You couldn't know how pretty that sight is unless
   you saw it. If it was so I could, I'd go back to a cattle ranch now
   where I could see the work go on. Of co'se they aint no more trail
   drivin', but I like to be aroun' stock.
   
   "I'll tell you something funny happened on that trip where we left the
   herd on the South Platte River. We was waitin' for the other outfit
   an' had to graze our herd on the river. That South Platte was a
   hundred miles long. Mr. Tom Pulliam was first boss an' Mr. Bob Rice
   was second boss an' one day Mr. Pulliam says to Bob Rice, 'Bob, I
   believe I'll go on an' hunt some range for the cattle. They've been
   here long enough, 'an' Mr. Rice says, 'All right.' Along in the
   evenin' Mr. Pulliam hadn't got in yet an' Mr. Bob says, 'Ben, don't
   you feel like eatin' some good range meat?' Of co'se I said yes an' he
   says, 'Well, we'll ride out an' get one this evenin'!' So we saddled
   up an' rode out an' pretty soon we found a nice fat range heifer an'
   he took his rifle an' shot 'er. He told me to get down an' bleed 'er
   an' I did, but when I straightened up an' looked, I saw a rider comin'
   across the hill an' I sure got restless for I thought it was a range
   rider. I said to Mr. Rice, "Look yonder, that sure is a range rider
   an' he's comin' right here!' Mr. Rice says, 'Well, we'll jus' have to
   put him, hoss an' all in the river. Will you help me?' I was afraid to
   say no because he was a kind of desperado himself an' if it was a
   range rider rode up there, I knowed Bob Rice would kill 'im an' put
   him, hoss an' all in that river.
   
   00099
   
   But it turned out to be Mr. Pulliam. He'd come back to camp an' knowed
   about where we were. He jus' rode on out to where we was gettin' the
   meat. I sho' was scared for awhile.
   
   "Once we took a herd up to Dakota an' that trip was the first 'chip
   races' I ever saw. Them girls up there would run races to see who
   could pick up the most buffalo chips. They wasn't no wood up there to
   burn so they used buffalo chips instead of wood. I've cooked with many
   a chip. Then big old girls could sure gather 'em on them races. They'd
   have lots of fun, too. They called them people up there 'grangers.' We
   call 'em 'nesters' down here. They didn't have no fences aroun' their
   farms an' one day we throwed our herd off to graze. It was on Sunday
   an' the old granger that owned a certain little place there was gone
   to church an' the place was all left alone. The old man had his
   harness hangin' in a shed an' our cattle was grazin' all aroun' his
   place, so one old steer got in the shed an' got one of the bridles of
   the harness hung on his head an' grazed off with it on. About that
   time, the old granger an' his family come home an' he ordered us off
   his place. We had a big, black Nigger with the herd an' after 'while,
   the granger come up to him an' wanted to know who was the boss of the
   outfit an' the Nigger pointed to me an' told him I was the boss. He
   come to me an' wanted to know if I was the boss an' I told him no an'
   pointed to another man close to me an' he went to him. That man told
   him no, he wasn't the boss an' pointed back to the big, black Nigger
   an' told 'im that Nigger was the boss. The granger went back to the
   Nigger and said, 'Are you the boss here?' An' the Nigger said, 'No.'
   The granger was gettin' pretty mad an' says, 'Well, where in the hell
   Is the boss?'
   
   001010
   
   Then he looked over at the steer an' said, 'Now, younder's a steer
   with one of my bridles on his head an' I want it taken off an' you go
   do it!' About then, he went to the house an' come out with a great
   long gun an' that Nigger -- he was Paul Boggins -- he had to rope that
   steer to get the bridle an' when eh got it off an' brought it back,
   the grager said, 'Now, I'll give you ten minutes to get these cattle
   off this land. This land is mine an' I want 'em off, so you better get
   'em off in ten minutes!' We sho' got 'em off too. We never though that
   was half as funny as the old steer walkin' aroun' with his bridle on.
   
   "You know when we'd take a herd up the trail, we'd sell out hosses,
   cattle an' all. Then when we went back next spring, you wouldn't know
   'em. Looked like they'd grow so much bigger, hosses or cattle either.
   Stock jus' natchly (naturally) grow bigger up there.
   
   "I fell in love with a Mexkin girl once. They was two of them girls
   an' they lived on a ranch owned by Ed Daughtery on the Ryo Grand (Rio
   Grande) an' the caporal (head man) was their father. They was
   heavy-set, stout girls an' they would help on the general round-ups
   ever' year. It would be hoss stock an' I reckin they would be a
   hundred of a hundred an' fifty mares. They would round up an' trim 'em
   up an' them big, old girls would get in there with a cabresto (hair
   rope) an' put it aroun' their waist in a kind of loose loop they held
   with their left hand so they could turn it loose quick if anything
   happened. Then they fore-footed them mares with thier right hand.
   Sometimes they'd throw under an' sometimes overhand an' when one of
   them mares come by, they never failed to 001111throw that mare. They
   sho' was ropers. They come down to the pens mostly to keep in practice
   because they didn't have to work in the pens if they didn't want to
   but thy liked to do the work an' they fore-footed a mare every time
   they threw their loop out. It aint whether a man is stout or not, but
   it's the trick of it, or the [DEL: [?] :DEL] sleight of knowin' when
   to put your weight on the rope at the right minute.
   
   "They called that ranch Laguan Seco an' I believe it was in Hildalgo
   County. The girls was named Juanita and Antonita Flores. Antonita was
   the one I fell in love with. There was one or two more boys used to
   ride over there an' cast their eyes at 'em, but the old folks watched
   'em too close to allow much sparkin'. But I was workin' on the ranch
   an' the old folks got to thinkin' lots of me. Of co'se I had chances
   to talk to her some. Both of 'em had long black hair an' they were
   black-eyed an' ride! M-m-m! Then girls could sho' ride. They was good
   at handlin' may kind of stock. They wore dresses just above the
   ankles. Oh, yes, they rode in their dresses. They were plain shoes an'
   never wore a hot if they was workin' in the pens. I used to go by
   Antonita an' smile an' pass her a sign an' she always answered. I
   would have married her if I had stayed on there but I was young an'
   hadn't even joined up with McNally yet an' when I left thee, I drifted
   farther away an' never did go back. But Antonita stayed in my memory a
   long time. She was good an' kind an' as pretty as a rose. I thought
   lots of her an' I knowed she thought lots of me. We used to ride
   together but most of the time the old man was with us. Sometimes I got
   to talk to her an' I could slip in a nice word while we were off
   together. She an' her sister, both, were good cooks an' good
   001212housekeepers. They used to bring us cookies an' coffee to the
   pens when we was workin' an' I tell you, that's sho' fine when you're
   hot an' tired. They was always neat an' tidy about ever'thing an' they
   wasn't much for wearin' guns buckled aroun' 'em like some I've seen.
   Well, they didn't have to. They was plenty of men to do that an'
   plenty of men to do the ropin' an' brandin' unless they wanted to help
   out to keep in practice.
   
   "I knew one woman they said went up the trail. Jack Stockley told me
   she went up the trail with her husband behind a bunch of cattle and
   she went in a hack (a two-seated buggy walking two horses). She was
   the Widow Burk when I first seen her in '76. She was big rich, then. I
   broke hosses for her while I was breaking hosses for Jim Merryman on
   the Benqueta Ranch. Her hoss range reached from Fort Ewing to Corpus.
   She had worlds of hoss range. I don't know how many houses she had an'
   she didn't know herself. Merryman didn't know how many he had either.
   I tell you, when we'd start on a hoss hunt them days, or start the
   general round-up, as far as you could see there would be bunches of
   mares an' sometimes mixed hosses, maybe some gentle ones in with 'em
   an' maybe all wild ones. They wasn't no two or three hundred either;
   it was up into the thousands. After we got through brandin' em, we'd
   turn 'em out on the range again. We would be out six weeks or two
   months sometimes. Th' was a pretty good demand for hosses them days on
   account of this trail drivin'. The Widow Burk had lots of 'em to sell.
   She was a tol'ably young an' portly-lookin' lady but she never did
   ride after her stock like lots of women did. I think she had a nephew
   that stayed with her, but no children of her own, an' the nephew
   looked after the ranch a lot.
   
   001313
   
   "Sally Scull was a woman hoss-trader. I never saw anything like her.
   She wore short skirts -- we called it a britch-clout' -- but the skirt
   came below her knees an' her boots reached up to the skirt. She wore a
   round, beaver-lookin' hat with a throat-latch under the chin, Mexkin
   spurs an' leather gloves. Then, she had two six-shooters buckled on
   'er, one on each side, an' let me tell you, she could sho' use 'em.
   I've seen 'er put her finger through the trigger-guard an' whirl the
   pistol aroun' an' aroun' an' then ketch it an' fire at some object an'
   she never missed. She could shoot as well with her left hand as she
   could with her right. She was strictly business too, an' ever'body
   knowed she'd shoot an' they knowed she wouldn't miss.
   
   "It seems to me that she wore a buckskin outfit. It had that color an'
   in them days they wore lots of buckskin anyway. I know I had a
   buckskin jacket myself. She was a right nice-lookin' woman, sort of
   sandy-haired an' pretty sunburned. She had a pleasin, smile an' she
   was quiet an' smooth-talkin'. If anything went funny about the hosses
   an' riders, she always laughed. She didn't weigh more'n 125 pounds,
   an' them two big old six-shooters didn't seem to bother her a bit.
   
   "She had five or six Mexkin hands with her an' they went into Mexico
   an' bought hosses an' crossed 'em over the Ryo Grand an' peddled 'em
   out. As long as she had any hosses on hand, she'd keep a-goin'. She
   always carried two pack hosses with 'er, one for the beddin' an' one
   for the cookin' outfit. The hands done the cookin' but as for that,
   she always made a hand herself. She carried her money with her, an' I
   reckin she carried it in a morral (nose bag to feed horses in) like
   other people did then, for she bought up big herds of hosses over in
   Mexico. She'd generally cross the Ryo Grand between 001414Brownsville
   an' Bagdad an' she'd have from a hundred an' fifty to two-hundred an'
   fifty hosses in a caviyard' (cavallard). They has been as many as a
   hundred an' fifty that I know of. She had hosses, mules, mares an'
   ever'thing that was salable. I don't know what she got for top prices,
   but I think top prices for hosses about then was twenty-five dollars.
   Mr. Merryman got that for top price, but Sally Scull was tradin' in
   hosses before that. I guess you could get hosses over in Mexico them
   days for about five or six dollars. Them Mexkins were a big help to
   her in tradin' over there. She treated 'em good an' they thought lots
   of her. They would have fought for her right now.
   
   "I heard her say that she had a daughter, but that she sent her away
   to school. She didn't want the girl to come up to that sort of rough
   life. I never did see her daughter, but I guess she had one all right
   for she mentioned her several times. I never did hear her mention her
   husband so I don't know whether he was dead or not. She was a
   character, that woman. Ever'body respected 'er an' I tell you, she
   wasn't afraid of nothin'.
   
   "Goin' up the trail aint all fun, you betcha. Sometimes they'd come a
   freeze in late spring an' ketch us an' I tell you we had fun then. We
   went up the trail generally in the spring, you see, an' I remember one
   spring we was goin' up with the West cattle an' had a good open spring
   an' about the middle of April was when we received our herd an' we
   moved off the ranch to Victoria Prairie. We was goin' to brand out our
   cattle at the pens an' then the bad weather commenced. We had about
   one-hundred head of hosses in our remuda an' it commenced rainin' an'
   freezin'. We had to herd them cattle an' 001515you'd go out to see
   where your old hoss was an' saddle 'im up, an' it would be so dark you
   couldn't see 'im but you could hear 'im snort. The wind would be
   blowin' an' you'd have to drag that old stiff saddle an' blanket up to
   the old hoss an' the rain would be freezin' almost when it hit. We'd
   put a bunch of cattle in the pens an' put the road brand on 'em an' it
   would be burnin' an' hurtin' 'em when we turned 'em out, so they'd
   take to the river an' swim across an' we had to get across the best
   way we could to bring 'em back. Well, we'd get that bunch back about
   the time they turned another bunch out an' the same thing would take
   place. Our cook on that trip was Pancho Silgaro, an' I tell you he was
   a cook too. I reck'n he thought we wasn't having' trouble enough so he
   an' Mr. King went to town after supplies one day. When they got all
   loaded up, the mules stampeded right in town an' run off with the
   wagon an' scattered provisions all over Victoria. They had flour,
   molasses, beans, bacon an' all kinds of stuff mixed up an' scattered
   for a mile. They fin'ly got most of it gatherd up an' come on out to
   camp.
   
   "On that trail drivin', we'd start with about twenty-four hands an'
   they wouldn't have nothin' but expert hands, either. They didn't want
   no sleepy-heads a-tall. By the time we got to Austin or Gonzales,
   ever' hand would be tried out, an' if you wasn't pretty good, they'd
   turn you loose an' hunt some others. We always left the ranch with a
   couple set' of hands an' when we got to Austin or Gonzales, twelve of
   the men would turn back to the ranch an' the other twelve would go on
   with the herd. They'd be six on one relief an' six on the other relief
   at nights, but if the cattle got along 001616all right, it would soon
   be to where two men could handle 'em at night an' let the others rest.
   
   "Some evenin's you could see a little cloud risin' away up in the
   north an' about dark you could see a little lightnin' danglin' an'
   then you better look out 'cause that night you would sure hate
   trouble. On stormy nights like that, I've seen balls of lightnin'
   danglin' all over the steers' horns an' on them nights, they would
   almost be sure to run. We always kept some of the cattle stirred up or
   awake at night 'cause a big herd of cattle will run all night if
   they're tired an' get to sleepin' too sound. The least racket will
   stampede 'em. You better never let 'em lay down an' go to sleep an'
   get quiet; you'll have trouble sure as the world. The boys always sang
   as they rode round the herd. That was the main thing, to keep a noise
   going so that no sudden racket would stampede 'em. I used to 'odel'
   (yodel) aroun' the cattle, but I never was much of a hand to sing. I
   could whistle an' make all kinds of funny rackets. I could sing "Sam
   Bass' an' 'Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie,' but when all the hands
   could 'odel' it sho' was pretty singin'.
   
   "The worst thing you got to watch is a stampede is to keep out of the
   middle of the herd when you get 'em to millin'. When you get a herd
   turned an' millin' you can handle 'em then, but you caint hardly stay
   out of the middle of the herd to save your life. One night after a
   stampede, Mr. Pulliam rode up on me in the middle of the herd an' he
   said, 'Who's that?' I said, 'It's Ben?! An' he said, 'What in the hell
   are you doin' here?' An' I said, 'What are you doin' here?' Then he
   said, 'Where are we at?" An' when I told him we was in the middle of
   the herd, he wanted to know how we got there.
   
   001717
   
   I told 'im how it was when we got to ridin' roun' the herd an' singin'
   to turn 'em an' how some of 'em fell in behind us an' got to follerin'
   us, so we fin'ly got in the middle of 'em.
   
   "Another peculiar thing about herdin' at night in case of stampedes in
   that you want to always build your bed down with your head away from
   the cattle. Always sleep with your feet toward the herd. If you don't,
   an' they stampede, you will get up an' run away from 'em instead of
   toward 'em ever' time. The thing is to get to your hoss an' get on
   'im. Your hoss is always at camp right at the wagon, saddled an' ready
   to go. The hard was always bedded down about fifty or seventy-five
   yards away from the wagon. No, you don't never want to run from the
   herd, but toward 'em when a stampede starts. Pshaw! I never did see a
   stampede run over a man. I don't know how they ever got that started.
   Maybe if you got right square in front of 'em before they saw you an'
   they couldn't turn, they would knock you down and run over you, but I
   never did see it, an' I reck'n I've seen as many stampedes an any man
   ever saw.
   
   "I went up the Chisolm Trail five or six times. Charley Word, Blocker,
   George West, W.G.B. Grimes, Able an' John Pierce was all big trail
   drivers then. Goin' up the trail you never was out of sight of a herd.
   The trail was so worn, that the dust would be knee deep to the cattle.
   You could ride right up to the rear of the cattle an' you couldn't see
   the cattle for the dust. It sho' was slow goin', but whenever we
   struck good range where there was grass an' water, we always grazed
   'em. If the cattle was strung out good on the trail, the lead cattle
   would be at least four mile ahead of the rear cattle an' sometimes
   fu'ther.
   
   "Another thing that don't sound reasonable: Now, when the 001818cattle
   was on the trail, the steers always had a traveling partner. They
   always had another steer they run with an' when a steer lost his
   partner, he always bawled for 'im till he found 'im. They would always
   hang together unless there was a stampede then they would get back
   together when they got straightened out. Whenever they would be
   huntin' one another, you would see 'em raise their heads an' try to
   get the wind of their partner.
   
   "On long drives without water, I've noticed that cattle can scent
   water five miles away. I have seen it when we was five or six miles
   away from water, them old lead steers would start out an' hold their
   heads up scentin' an' we knowed they smelt water. Them scoundrels
   would sho' travel. They do some peculiar things. Whenever you see an
   old cow raise her foot up an' kick back like she was slingin' mud off
   her foot, it's sho' a good indication of rain. You know one thing -- I
   aint no hand to guess on rains much, but we aint goin' to have no rain
   to amount to anything till about January (1938). It's jus' my idea
   from the way these Gulf clouds are travelin' north. It's a good sign
   of dry weather when you see them white thunderheads goin' over. I
   don't look for no rain soon. Yes, they keep goin' over, these white
   clouds, but they don't bring rain. They'll probably come back full of
   sand.
   
   "You know, all them trips we went up the trial, we never did have no
   trouble with Indians. Most all other outfits had a terrible time with
   the Indians. We always give 'em somethin' to eat when they come to our
   wagon. We'd give 'em a crippled or a road-foundered steer an' let 'em
   have it to kill. Them scoundrels, whenever they'd come to the wagon at
   meal time, you couldn't hand the pan of grub to an Indian to help
   himself like they do in a cowcamp. If you handed him a pan of meat,
   001919hold take the whole pan an' keep it an' wouldn't give the others
   none of it, either. What he couldn't eat, he'd fix it up an' take it
   along with 'im. You had to help each one's plate an' pass it to 'im.
   An' another thing: If one of 'em had anything you wanted to look at,
   like a bow or arrow, an' you asked 'im to let you see it, then after
   you examined it an' passed it back to 'im, ever' one of the Indians
   with 'im would have to examine it an' pass it back to 'im jus' like
   you did. He'd pass it to ever' one of 'em. I don't know why they done
   that, but they done that ever' time. An' did you ever know how they
   ate their beef when they got a steer or cow to kill, or a buffalo
   either? As quick as they skin 'im, they take them entrails an' run
   their thumb an' forefinger down the outside of the entrail to press it
   clean an' then they begin eatin' it while it's hot. Sho' they ate it
   raw.
   
   "Many a thing could happen out on the trail, or out on the ranch
   gatherin' cattle. I've had worlds of rattlesnake experiences. One time
   down here on the Irvin ranch, I seen the biggest snake layin right by
   the trail, an' befo' I could turn my hoss, he struck. He missed my
   hoss, but he was so sho, he got 'im, he flopped over on his back befo'
   he knowed he missed. Whenever they strike anything an' hang their
   fangs in it, they always flop on their backs to tear their fangs
   loose. This sho' was a big one. I had a hoss bit later on at the
   Anderson ranch. The snake hung his fang in my hoss' leg an' he
   couldn't get loose. His fangs hung an' my hoss reared an' plunged till
   he stepped on the snake with his hind foot an' pulled the snake loose.
   I took him home an' took my pocket-knife an' scarified the place an'
   then packed salt petre in the cut an' bound it up Then I put kerosene
   on the place an' it never did swell, I've saved

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