The Log of a Cowboy: A Narrative of the Old Trail DaysAdams, Andy
General
The Log of a Cowboy: A Narrative of the Old Trail Days
Adams, Andy
Cattle drives -- Fiction; Cowboys -- Fiction; Western stories
I had one of the best swimming horses in our outfit, and Flood put me
in the lead on the point. As my horse came out on the farther bank, I
am certain I never have seen a herd of cattle, before or since, which
presented a prettier sight when swimming than ours did that day. There
was fully four hundred yards of water on the angle by which we
crossed, nearly half of which was swimming, but with the two islands
which gave them a breathing spell, our Circle Dots were taking the
water as steadily as a herd leaving their bed ground. Scholar and his
men were feeding them in, while half a dozen of our men on each island
were keeping them moving. Honeyman and I pointed them out of the
river; and as they grazed away from the shore, they spread out
fan-like, many of them kicking up their heels after they left the
water in healthy enjoyment of their bath. Long before they were half
over, the usual shouting had ceased, and we simply sat in our saddles
and waited for the long train of cattle to come up and cross. Within
less than half an hour from the time our saddle horses entered the
North Platte, the tail end of our herd had landed safely on the
farther bank.
[Illustration: SWIMMING THE PLATTE]
As Honeyman and I were the only ones of our outfit on the north side
of the river during the passage, Flood called to us from across the
last channel to graze the herd until relieved, when the remainder of
the outfit returned to the south side to recover their discarded
effects and to get dinner with Scholar’s wagon. I had imitated
Honeyman, and tied my boots to my cantle strings, so that my effects
were on the right side of the river; and as far as dinner was
concerned,--well, I’d much rather miss it than swim the Platte twice
in its then stage of water. There is a difference in daring in one’s
duty and in daring out of pure venturesomeness, and if we missed our
dinners it would not be the first time, so we were quite willing to
make the sacrifice. If the Quirk family never achieve fame for daring
by field and flood, until this one of the old man’s boys brings the
family name into prominence, it will be hopelessly lost to posterity.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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