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    The Log of a Cowboy (Barnes & Noble Library of Essential Reading)
    The Log of a Cowboy (Barnes & Noble Library of Essential Reading)
    The Log of a Cowboy (Barnes & Noble Library of Essential Reading)
    Ebook360 pages6 hours

    The Log of a Cowboy (Barnes & Noble Library of Essential Reading)

    By Andy Adams and Donald Reeves

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    About this ebook

    Told with campfire-story spirit, The Log of a Cowboy is of the best tales of the cowboy life ever written.  Drawing from his own life as a cattle driver, Andy Adams recounts the adventures of America’s frontier.  Through such memorable characters as Bill Blades and Bull Durham, we become witness to gunfights, buffalo stampedes, and cattle drives from Texas to Montana.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBarnes & Noble
    Release dateSep 1, 2009
    ISBN9781411428553
    The Log of a Cowboy (Barnes & Noble Library of Essential Reading)

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      Book preview

      The Log of a Cowboy (Barnes & Noble Library of Essential Reading) - Andy Adams

      INTRODUCTION

      STAMPEDES, RIVER CROSSINGS, AND CATTLE THIEVES PROVIDE ACTION while horse races, fiddling contests, and practical jokes bring the characters to life in The Log of a Cowboy by Andy Adams. This fictional, first-person narrative provides readers with a vivid account of the excitement, drudgery, and pride experienced by thousands of young trail-drive cowboys in the 1870s and 1880s. For many men, such drives were a once-in-a-lifetime experience yielding personal stories that were told and retold for generations. First published in 1903, this unorthodox Western novel has been praised as a masterpiece on the nineteenth-century cattle industry. The plot revolves around the journey itself, much like a heroic quest. The adventures involve natural perils and the cowboys’ struggles to control their bovine charges. So realistic is its portrayal, Adams’ fictional tale is often mistaken as an actual journal of a cowboy on the Western Cattle Trail. Even Charlie Russell, one of the West’s favorite artists and chroniclers, accepted the book as Adams’ autobiography and called it the best trail story he had ever read.

      Born in 1859, the youngest son in an Indiana farming family, Adams was well acquainted with the care and feeding of oxen and draft horses. By his sixteenth year he ran away from this life, drifting to Arkansas and then to San Antonio, Texas, where he landed a job shipping horses for livestock brokers Smith and Redmon.

      From 1882 until 1889, Adams drove horses, and occasionally cattle, north across Oklahoma Territory from the Red River to Caldwell, Kansas. Although he never drove cattle along the Western Cattle Trail outside Oklahoma Territory, he did experience, first hand, the rugged outdoor life of a drover. Delivering horses throughout his travels in Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas, Adams gleaned other experiences from those adventures that broadened his understanding of the time and place.

      The writing career of Andy Adams arose from his frustration with the literature and stage plays of the 1890s. Flamboyant and unrealistic dime novels were popular and widely read, created by Eastern writers with no first-hand knowledge of cattlemen or even cattle. Adams became determined to pen more accurate depictions of American cowboys based upon those whom he had known on the Great Plains.

      According to his biographer, Wilson M. Hudson, Adams stated in a letter two years before his death in 1934, I have always contended that fiction can be written as convincingly as fact.¹ After the success of The Log of a Cowboy he wrote three more novels (Texas Matchmaker, The Outlet, and Reed Anthony, Cowman), as well as a collection of stories called Cattle Brands, all by 1907. It is these five books for which he is remembered.

      In a letter to noted historian Walter Prescott Webb, Adams makes reference to Owen Wister’s best-selling novel published one year before The Log of a Cowboy, "In a popular book like The Virginian the reader never catches a glimpse of the cattle."² It aggravated Adams that late-nineteenth- and early twentieth-century fictional Western heroes were cow-less cowboys riding the range righting wrongs through gunplay or other imaginative feats of daring. Adams’ novel is not a moral drama of good versus evil. Conspicuously absent is the typical love interest or damsel in distress.

      In The Log of a Cowboy, Adams counters the trend of cow-less cowboys as he reveals the reality and mechanics of a typical Western cattle-drive through the eyes of his main character, Thomas Moore Quirk. He narrates the story as if it were an actual log or journal recording his experiences on this grand adventure. The stage is set when the Quirk family moves from Georgia after the Civil War and homesteads in Texas along the San Antonio River.

      In the spring of 1882, Tom Quirk, now in his mid-twenties, signs on for a cattle drive from the southern tip of Texas, at the mouth of the Rio Grande River, to Fort Benton, Montana, seventy miles from the Canadian border. An entrepreneurial cattleman, Don Lovell, obtains a U.S. Government contract to deliver cattle to the Blackfoot Reservation. Some cattle were for breeding stock, the rest would provide a million pounds of beef to the tribe that was now restricted from following the buffalo herds.

      The vast ranches of northern Mexico were the source of the cattle, driven toward the border by the American cowboy’s Hispanic counterpart, the vaquero, a term derived from the Spanish word vaca, meaning cow. Lovell obtained his herd via colorful international business negotiations involving Spanish interpreters and a fine meal in Brownsville during which the gentlemen concluded their negotiations.

      Adams’ depictions of swimming the cattle across the Rio Grande and the final counting of the herd provide unique insight into the cattle industry of the borderlands. The Texas cowboys used a tally string with ten loose buttons of braided rawhide, moving a button as each one hundred head of cattle streamed by their vantage point. The vaqueros used ten small pebbles, shifting a pebble from one hand to the other on hundreds.

      Prior to delivery, the Mexican Longhorn cattle, carrying brands from previous owners, had been given a single road brand, the Circle Dot, on the left hip. This large brand distinguished the herd of 3,100 cattle, just purchased by Don Lovell, from other livestock ranging along the long cattle trail. The drive takes place between April and September. It is managed by a crew of fifteen men averaging fifteen miles a day and covers more than two thousand miles (Adams claims almost three thousand).

      The outfit is well represented with men raised in the Southern states, some having fought for the Confederacy. This is reflected in their dialog, and the reader should be aware that the author’s use of ethnic slurs represents commonly held racial prejudices of that era. The character Quirk names his favorite black horse Nigger Boy, comments on the darky cooks in other crews, and recites one stanza of a poem about children that would be unwelcome in our schools today.

      Otherwise, the prose is comfortable and engaging. It is the language of common workers as they go about their tasks, chiding each other about being late for night guard or their partner’s shortcomings. The book is also sprinkled with words from south of the border such as: remuda for the string of extra saddle horses, fresh meat being carne fresco, or segundo as in second in charge of the crew. At one place along the trip the cook is said to be out of extra supplies "as a pelon." Understanding pelon as bald, Adams may have meant the chuck box was bare as a bald man’s head.

      There is an interesting turn of phrase on many a page. One drover searching for his cattle, which had stampeded and drifted in the night toward the Circle Dot herd, asks Quirk’s crew, Did you catch my drift? Today this phrase is slang for comprehending a nuance of conversation. On another occasion, Quirk’s foreman admonished the trail crew to carry on without him for a few hours by saying, An outfit that can’t run itself without a boss ought to stay home and do the milking.

      Adams was adamant that the most important element of the cowboy’s life was his work. Hudson also noted that Adams considered his characters just ordinary men. But shortly after settling into a soft chair and quickly finding yourself at chapter 2, it will be obvious that while this story is not about superheroes, it is about highly skilled men nonetheless. They were men raised as horsemen, with years of experience outsmarting cattle and good with a catch rope. Their horsemanship was essential to both survival and productivity among the crew. As Jim Flood, the foreman in the story, admonished each member of his trail crew, A man afoot is useless.

      The frequent challenge of bogged cattle is another aspect of nineteenth-century cowboy life that Adams discusses in this volume. He carefully describes the efforts necessary to free Circle Dot cattle from quicksand along the riverbeds. The cattle did not sink quickly out of sight as in the movies, yet the viscous sand took hold of Longhorn and horse alike. Livestock were freed by tediously digging out one leg at a time and using ropes to pull them from danger.

      After a dangerous, nighttime stampede that drove the men through thorny mesquite thickets in the dark, the character Joe Stallings remarks, I’ve worn leggins for the last ten years . . . and for about ten seconds in forcing that mesquite thicket was the only time I ever drew interest on my investment. They’re a heap like a six-shooter—wear them all your life and never have any use for them. The heavy leather chaps, often left in the wagon, were hot and seldom needed when moving cattle through open country, and by the 1880s, the cowboy’s pistol was rarely drawn in anger.

      Andy Adams developed this novel from a collection of short stories about cowboy life he wrote in 1901, two years before the novel was published. When the earlier manuscript, Adams’ first attempt as a writer, was rejected because of doubts about its marketability, Adams wove many of those same stories into the narrative format, occasionally working a miscellaneous tale into the crew’s evening campfire activities. The material for these stories came from the hours he sat listening to the reminiscences of cattlemen in the 1880s.

      The campfire is to all outdoor life what the evening fireside is to domestic life, Adams states. His stories provide the reader a welcome break from the drudgery of the trail, just as they would the crew. One of the most interesting stories relates how a cowpuncher, seeking work around Christmastime, stops at a cow camp in the Cherokee Strip of Oklahoma Territory and demonstrates how to make doughnuts, which he calls bear sign. The unusual pastry causes quite a stir as he attempts to fill a barrel full of doughnuts to prove his usefulness to the camp cook. Cowboys from many nearby ranches hear about the delicious treat and begin to arrive, consuming them as fast as they are made.

      In his description of life in Dodge City, Adams refers to exploits by several historic lawmen and famous cowmen including a loud protest against rail yardage charges by Shanghai Pierce, one of the most colorful cattlemen in Texas, a conversation Adams claims to have overheard personally in the 1880s. During his stay in Caldwell, Kansas, the writer also came to know Charlie Siringo, who in 1885 wrote A Texas Cowboy based upon his personal experiences. At this time Siringo was the proprietor of an ice-cream parlor, also known around Caldwell for its oyster bar.

      Adams’ geographical descriptions make the reader feel like he or she is along with the crew observing each passing landmark. And yet, this fictional cattle-drive is a blend of historic and fictional features. Adams places the Quirk family ranch near a Cibollo Ford on the San Antonio River; however, the historic Cibilo Crossing in that region is on Cibolo Creek, halfway between Goliad and San Antonio, just above the creek’s confluence with the San Antonio River. Fictional geographical features on the Western Cattle Trail also includes: Indian Lakes, Big Boggy Creek, Forty Island Ford, and Frenchman’s Ford.

      Adams told noted author J. Frank Dobie in 1927 such details need never worry one when writing fiction.³ Dobie went on to correspond regularly with Andy Adams and championed his work among other authors on the West. While teaching English literature for two years in the 1920s at Oklahoma Agricultural & Mechanical University, Dobie made The Log of the Cowboy required reading for his students. He carried on this practice at the University of Texas, where he taught, on and off, for more than two decades. Distinguished novelist Eugene Manlove Rhodes and the influential Walter Prescott Webb wrote about the importance of this work by Andy Adams. Even today this novel is widely read at many universities as part of the coursework on Western history, giving students a better understanding of the everyday life of an American cowboy in the 1880s.

      At the end of Adams’ trail-drive story no hero rides off into the sunset or settles down with the girl. Instead, the boys bring in the herd. With the delivery of the cattle to the Indian Agent, the author emphasizes the satisfaction the crew derives from a job well done. It was more than a paycheck for these cowboys. However, there is some remorse as the boss sold off the remaining trail equipment and the remuda of horses. Tom Quirk reflects, But at no time in my life, before or since, have I felt so keenly the parting between man and horse as I did that September evening in Montana. But then a glass is raised as they celebrate their accomplishment, like a championship sports team or an expedition of explorers successful in their quest. Don Lovell, the owner of the herd, sums it up with the toast, This outfit has made one of the longest cattle drives on record, and the best is none too good for them.

      With thousands of books on the American West already available and hundreds of new works filling the shelves each year, a novel written over a century ago might seem a curious choice to the average reader. Yet if only allowed one volume on the great cattle-drive era, most history buffs and scholars who cherish the literature of the West would undoubtedly choose The Log of the Cowboy for their bookshelf.

      Donald W. Reeves holds the McCasland Chair of Cowboy Culture at the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum where he has been on staff since 1979. He holds an M.A. in anthropology from the University of Oklahoma and writes frequently on cowboy culture and the American West.

      CHAPTER ONE

      UP THE TRAIL

      JUST WHY MY FATHER MOVED, AT THE CLOSE OF THE CIVIL WAR, FROM Georgia to Texas, is to this good hour a mystery to me. While we did not exactly belong to the poor whites, we classed with them in poverty, being renters; but I am inclined to think my parents were intellectually superior to that common type of the South. Both were foreign born, my mother being Scotch and my father a north of Ireland man—as I remember him, now, impulsive, hasty in action, and slow to confess a fault. It was his impulsiveness that led him to volunteer and serve four years in the Confederate army—trying years to my mother, with a brood of seven children to feed, garb, and house. The war brought me my initiation as a cowboy, of which I have now, after the long lapse of years, the greater portion of which were spent with cattle, a distinct recollection. Sherman’s army, in its march to the sea, passed through our county, devastating that section for miles in its passing. Foraging parties scoured the country on either side of its path. My mother had warning in time and set her house in order. Our work stock consisted of two yoke of oxen, while our cattle numbered three cows, and for saving them from the foragers credit must be given to my mother’s generalship. There was a wild canebrake, in which the cattle fed, several hundred acres in extent, about a mile from our little farm, and it was necessary to bell them in order to locate them when wanted. But the cows were in the habit of coming up to be milked, and a soldier can hear a bell as well as anyone. I was a lad of eight at the time, and while my two older brothers worked our few fields, I was sent into the canebrake to herd the cattle. We had removed the bells from the oxen and cows, but one ox was belled after darkness each evening, to be unbelled again at daybreak. I always carried the bell with me, stuffed with grass, in order to have it at hand when wanted.

      During the first few days of the raid, a number of mounted foraging parties passed our house, but its poverty was all too apparent, and nothing was molested. Several of these parties were driving herds of cattle and work stock of every description, while by day and by night gins and plantation houses were being given to the flames. Our one-roomed log cabin was spared, due to the ingenious tale told by my mother as to the whereabouts of my father; and yet she taught her children to fear God and tell the truth. My vigil was trying to one of my years, for the days seemed like weeks, but the importance of hiding our cattle was thoroughly impressed upon my mind. Food was secretly brought to me, and under cover of darkness, my mother and eldest brother would come and milk the cows, when we would all return home together. Then, before daybreak, we would be in the cane listening for the first tinkle, to find the cattle and remove the bell. And my day’s work commenced anew.

      Only once did I come near betraying my trust. About the middle of the third day I grew very hungry, and as the cattle were lying down, I crept to the edge of the canebrake to see if my dinner was not forthcoming. Soldiers were in sight, which explained everything. Concealed in the rank cane I stood and watched them. Suddenly a squad of five or six turned a point of the brake and rode within fifty feet of me. I stood like a stone statue, my concealment being perfect. After they had passed, I took a step forward, the better to watch them as they rode away, when the grass dropped out of the bell and it clattered. A red-whiskered soldier heard the tinkle and, wheeling his horse, rode back. I grasped the clapper and lay flat on the ground, my heart beating like a trip-hammer. He rode within twenty feet of me, peering into the thicket of cane, and not seeing anything unusual, turned and galloped away after his companions. Then the lesson, taught me by my mother, of being faithful over a few things, flashed through my mind, and though our cattle were spared to us, I felt very guilty.

      Another vivid recollection of those boyhood days in Georgia was the return of my father from the army. The news of Lee’s surrender had reached us, and all of us watched for his coming. Though he was long delayed, when at last he did come riding home on a swallow-marked brown mule, he was a conquering hero to us children. We had never owned a horse, and he assured us that the animal was his own, and by turns set us on the tired mule’s back. He explained to mother and us children how, though he was an infantryman, he came into possession of the animal. Now, however, with my mature years and knowledge of brands, I regret to state that the mule had not been condemned and was in the U.S. brand. A story which Priest, The Rebel, once told me throws some light on the matter; he asserted that all good soldiers would steal. Can you take the city of St. Louis? was asked of General Price. I don’t know as I can take it, replied the general to his consulting superiors, but if you will give me Louisiana troops, I’ll agree to steal it.

      Though my father had lost nothing by the war, he was impatient to go to a new country. Many of his former comrades were going to Texas, and, as our worldly possessions were movable, to Texas we started. Our four oxen were yoked to the wagon, in which our few household effects were loaded and in which mother and the smaller children rode, and with the cows, dogs, and elder boys bringing up the rear, our caravan started, my father riding the mule and driving the oxen. It was an entire summer’s trip, full of incident, privation, and hardship. The stock fared well, but several times we were compelled to halt and secure work in order to supply our limited larder. Through certain sections, however, fish and game were abundant. I remember the enthusiasm we all felt when we reached the Sabine River, and for the first time viewed the promised land. It was at a ferry, and the sluggish river was deep. When my father informed the ferryman that he had no money with which to pay the ferriage, the latter turned on him remarking, sarcastically: What, no money? My dear sir, it certainly can’t make much difference to a man which side of the river he’s on, when he has no money.

      Nothing daunted by this rebuff, my father argued the point at some length, when the ferryman relented so far as to inform him that ten miles higher up, the river was fordable. We arrived at the ford the next day. My father rode across and back, testing the stage of the water and the river’s bottom before driving the wagon in. Then taking one of the older boys behind him on the mule in order to lighten the wagon, he drove the oxen into the river. Near the middle the water was deep enough to reach the wagon box, but with shoutings and a free application of the gad, we hurried through in safety. One of the wheel oxen, a black steer which we called Pop-eye, could be ridden, and I straddled him in fording, laving my sunburned feet in the cool water. The cows were driven over next, the dogs swimming, and at last, bag and baggage, we were in Texas.

      We reached the Colorado River early in the fall, where we stopped and picked cotton for several months, making quite a bit of money, and near Christmas reached our final destination on the San Antonio River, where we took up land and built a house. That was a happy home; the country was new and supplied our simple wants; we had milk and honey, and, though the fig tree was absent, along the river grew endless quantities of mustang grapes.

      At that time the San Antonio valley was principally a cattle country, and as the boys of our family grew old enough the fascination of a horse and saddle was too strong to be resisted. My two older brothers went first, but my father and mother made strenuous efforts to keep me at home, and did so until I was sixteen. I suppose it is natural for every country boy to be fascinated with some other occupation than the one to which he is bred. In my early teens, I always thought I should like either to drive six horses to a stage or clerk in a store, and if I could have attained either of those lofty heights, at that age, I would have asked no more. So my father, rather than see me follow in the footsteps of my older brothers, secured me a situation in a village store some twenty miles distant. The storekeeper was a fellow countryman of my father—from the same county in Ireland, in fact—and I was duly elated on getting away from home to the life of the village.

      But my elation was short-lived. I was to receive no wages for the first six months. My father counseled the merchant to work me hard, and, if possible, cure me of the foolish notion, as he termed it. The storekeeper cured me. The first week I was with him he kept me in a back warehouse shelling corn. The second week started out no better. I was given a shovel and put on the street to work out the poll-tax, not only of the merchant but of two other clerks in the store. Here was two weeks’ work in sight, but the third morning I took breakfast at home. My mercantile career had ended, and forthwith I took to the range as a preacher’s son takes to vice. By the time I was twenty there was no better cowhand in the entire country. I could, besides, speak Spanish and play the fiddle, and thought nothing of riding thirty miles to a dance. The vagabond temperament of the range I easily assimilated.

      Christmas in the South is always a season of festivity, and the magnet of mother and home yearly drew us to the family hearthstone. There we brothers met and exchanged stories of our experiences. But one year both my brothers brought home a new experience. They had been up the trail, and the wondrous stories they told about the northern country set my blood on fire. Until then I thought I had had adventures, but mine paled into insignificance beside theirs. The following summer, my eldest brother, Robert, himself was to boss a herd up the trail, and I pleaded with him to give me a berth, but he refused me, saying: No, Tommy; the trail is one place where a foreman can have no favorites. Hardship and privation must be met, and the men must throw themselves equally into the collar. I don’t doubt but you’re a good hand; still the fact that you’re my brother might cause other boys to think I would favor you. A trail outfit has to work as a unit, and dissensions would be ruinous. I had seen favoritism shown on ranches, and understood his position to be right. Still I felt that I must make that trip if it were possible. Finally Robert, seeing that I was overanxious to go, came to me and said: I’ve been thinking that if I recommended you to Jim Flood, any old foreman, he might take you with him next year. He is to have a herd that will take five months from start to delivery, and that will be the chance of your life. I’ll see him next week and make a strong talk for you.

      True to his word, he bespoke me a job with Flood the next time he met him, and a week later a letter from Flood reached me, terse and pointed, engaging my services as a trail hand for the coming summer. The outfit would pass near our home on its way to receive the cattle which were to make up the trail herd. Time and place were appointed where I was to meet them in the middle of March, and I felt as if I were made. I remember my mother and sisters twitted me about the swagger that came into my walk, after the receipt of Flood’s letter, and even asserted that I sat my horse as straight as a poker. Possibly! But wasn’t I going up the trail with Jim Flood, the boss foreman of Don Lovell, the cowman and drover?

      Our little ranch was near Cibollo Ford on the river, and as the outfit passed down the country, they crossed at that ford and picked me up. Flood was not with them, which was a disappointment to me, Quince Forrest acting as segundo at the time. They had four mules to the chuck wagon under Barney McCann as cook, while the remuda, under Billy Honeyman as horse wrangler, numbered a hundred and forty-two, ten horses to the man, with two extra for the foreman. Then, for the first time, I learned that we were going down to the mouth of the Rio Grande to receive the herd from across the river in Old Mexico; and that they were contracted for delivery on the Blackfoot Indian Reservation in the northwest corner of Montana. Lovell had several contracts with the Indian Department of the government that year, and had been granted the privilege of bringing in, free of duty, any cattle to be used in filling Indian contracts.

      My worst trouble was getting away from home on the morning of starting. Mother and my sisters, of course, shed a few tears; but my father, stern and unbending in his manner, gave me his benediction in these words: Thomas Moore, you’re the third son to leave our roof, but your father’s blessing goes with you. I left my own home beyond the sea before I was your age. And as they all stood at the gate, I climbed into my saddle and rode away, with a lump in my throat which left me speechless to reply.

      CHAPTER TWO

      RECEIVING

      IT WAS A NICE TEN DAYS’ TRIP FROM THE SAN ANTONIO TO THE RIO Grande River. We made twenty-five to thirty miles a day, giving the saddle horses all the advantage of grazing on the way. Rather than hobble, Forrest night-herded them, using five guards, two men to the watch of two hours each. As I have little hope of ever rising to the dignity of foreman, said our segundo, while arranging the guards, I’ll take this occasion to show you varmints what an iron will I possess. With the amount of help I have, I don’t propose to even catch a night horse; and I’ll give the cook orders to bring me a cup of coffee and a cigarette before I arise in the morning. I’ve been up the trail before and realize that this authority is short-lived, so I propose to make the most of it while it lasts. Now you all know your places, and see you don’t incur your foreman’s displeasure.

      The outfit reached Brownsville on March 25th, where we picked up Flood and Lovell, and dropping down the river about six miles below Fort Brown, went into camp at a cattle ford known as Paso Ganado. The Rio Grande was two hundred yards wide at this point, and at its then stage was almost swimming from bank to bank. It had very little current, and when winds were favorable the tide from the Gulf ran in above the ford. Flood had spent the past two weeks across the river, receiving and road-branding the herd, so when the cattle should reach the river on the Mexican side we were in honor bound to accept everything bearing the circle dot 006 on the left hip. The contract called for a thousand she cattle, three and four years of age, and two thousand four and five-year-old beeves, estimated as sufficient to fill a million-pound beef contract. For fear of losses on the trail, our foreman had accepted fifty extra head of each class, and our herd at starting would number thirty-one hundred head. They were coming up from ranches in the interior, and we expected to cross them the first favorable day after their arrival. A number of different rancheros had turned in cattle in making up the herd, and Flood reported them in good, strong condition.

      Lovell and Flood were a good team of cowmen. The former, as a youth, had carried a musket in the ranks of the Union army, and at the end of that struggle, cast his fortune with Texas. Where others had

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