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
Running is not a natural gait with cattle, and if we could only hold
them together and prevent splitting up, in time they would tire, while
the rear cattle could be depended on to follow the leaders. All we
could hope to do was to force them to run straight, and in this
respect we were succeeding splendidly, though to a certain extent it
was a guess in the dark. When they had run possibly a mile, I noticed
a horseman overtake Priest. After they had ridden together a moment,
one of them came over to my point, and the next minute our foreman was
racing along by my side. In his impatience to check the run, he took
me with him, and circling the leaders we reached the left point, by
which time the remainder of the outfit had come up. Now massing our
numbers, we fell on the left point, and amid the flash of guns
deflected their course for a few moments. A dozen men, however, can
cover but a small space, and we soon realized that we had turned only
a few hundred head, for the momentum of the main body bore steadily
ahead. Abandoning what few cattle we had turned, which, owing to their
running ability, soon resumed their places in the lead, we attempted
to turn them to the left. Stretching out our line until there was a
man about every twenty feet, we threw our force against the right
point and lead in the hope of gradually deviating their course. For a
few minutes the attempt promised to be successful, but our cordon was
too weak and the cattle went through between the riders, and we soon
found a portion of our forces on either side of the herd, while a few
of the boys were riding out of the rush in the lead.
On finding our forces thus divided, the five or six of us who remained
on the right contented ourselves by pointing in the leaders, for the
cattle, so far as we could tell, were running compactly. Our foreman,
however, was determined to turn the run, and after a few minutes’ time
rejoined us on the right, when under his leadership we circled the
front of the herd and collected on the left point, when, for a third
time, we repeated the same tactics in our efforts to turn the
stampede. But in this, which was our final effort, we were attempting
to turn them slowly and on a much larger circle, and with a promise of
success. Suddenly in the dark we encountered a mesquite thicket into
which the lead cattle tore with a crashing of brush and a rattle of
horns that sent a chill up and down my spine. But there was no time to
hesitate, for our horses were in the thicket, and with the herd
closing in on us there was no alternative but to go through it, every
man for himself. I gave Nigger a free rein, shutting my eyes and
clutching both cantle and pommel to hold my seat; the black responded
to the rowel and tore through the thicket, in places higher than my
head, and came out in an open space considerably in the lead of the
cattle.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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