CHAPTER IX

BUFFALO NEAR THE BIG BEND

That afternoon we reached Council Grove, on the west bank of Neosho River. It was then a place of less than a hundred and fifty inhabitants but an important business point--the outpost of Kansas settlements and the last town, going westward, until Denver, Colorado, was reached. Travellers going to the plains usually halted here to lay in any requisites for their trip that might have been overlooked in starting from the Missouri River and also for last repairs on wagons and for horseshoeing.

The tires on our hind wheels had become a little loose, and we decided to have them shrunk and reset, so we camped by a blacksmith shop near the centre of the village, and soon had the blacksmith at our work, which he finished before dark.

Making an early start next morning, we rolled out, nooned at Diamond Springs, fifteen miles from the Grove, where there was but one family, and at evening camped at Lost Springs, thirty miles from Council Grove, where Jack Costillo's ranch was the only habitation. So long as the road and weather were fine we wished to make up the time lost in being delayed by the jayhawkers and lengthened our drives accordingly.

We were now fairly launched on the plains and would see little more timber and no habitations of white men except an occasional trading ranch at the crossing of some creek along the road. We were nearing the eastern edge of the buffalo range.

The road from Fort Riley, that we had formerly travelled in going out to the Arkansas River and back, enters the Santa Fé road here at Lost Springs. At this camp there was no timber and no running water--merely a series of water-holes strung along a prairie hollow. This had long been a well-known camping ground; but where the springs were from which it takes the name I never knew, for I never saw any.

We pitched our tent near where the Fort Riley road enters the Santa Fé and after supper attended to the usual camp work. After we had groomed and fed our animals the Irishman and I strolled up to the ranch to renew old acquaintance with the proprietor, Jack Costillo, also an Irishman, whom we had previously known as a soldier in the Mounted Rifle Regiment in New Mexico.

Costillo was delighted to meet us again and, of course, set out his best for us. We spent a couple of hours very pleasantly talking over old times with him and then returned to our camp. As we walked along, thinking of the Italian name borne by this man, who, as Jack said, "wore the map of Ireland on his face," I remarked:

"When I hear such names as O'Shaughnessy, Finnegan, or McCarthy given for an Irishman, they seem natural and Irish enough, but now and then I find an Irishman with what seems to be a very un-Irish name, such as Costillo's, for instance. How do you account for these misfit names, Jack?"

"Oh, that's 'asy," replied Jack. "You see, ould Ireland is a sea-girt isle an' is visited by ships of various nations, an' now an' then some foreign sailor, in an Irish port, falls in love with an Irish girl an' marries her, an' the childther, of course, will bear the foreigner's name, though they be as Irish as Paddy's pigs."

"Well, that is a reasonable explanation of a question that has occasioned me a good deal of speculation," I answered, "and, accepting your solution of the problem, my mind will be much easier in the future."

At these roadside ranches, which had sprung up at every important camping place along the road since the Pike's Peak gold discovery, liquor was sold and a small general assortment kept of such goods as were in demand by travellers.

No attempt was made to cultivate the soil or raise crops; they were there merely for the trade of the road and--at points farther out--for Indian trade. They also bought worn-out stock from passing outfits and, after resting and recruiting such animals, sold them to other travellers needing fresh animals.

The Santa Fé mail contractors, Hall & Porter, of Independence, Missouri, had established stations at certain ranches, but beyond Council Grove there were, as yet, no regular eating or lodging stations for passengers in the mail-coaches. They had to carry their own bedding and take camp fare with the mail hands--two drivers and a conductor to each coach.

At Cottonwood Creek, the next camp west of Lost Springs, we began to see buffalo--a few straggling old bulls at some distance from the road--but as yet no herds. By the time we had reached the Little Arkansas small bands became more numerous and neighborly; and from there on the herds grew larger, till by the time we reached the vicinity of Fort Larned--much later--dense masses of them were to be seen in every direction.

As far west as Lost Springs we found multitudes of prairie-chickens along the road and our shotgun kept our mess supplied with fresh meat. From Lost Springs westward we saw no more prairie-chickens, but as we soon reached the buffalo range we killed young buffalo or antelope.

In running buffalo we used the black horse, Jack's capture, and although at first somewhat shy of the brown, woolly monsters, he soon got used to them and evinced keen interest in the chase.

In killing a buffalo for fresh meat we usually selected a yearling or two-year-old, to insure tender meat, and cut out only a few pounds of the choicest parts from the carcass, buffalo being so plenty that we seldom thought of the wastefulness of this then common practice.

Antelope, the fleetest and most graceful animal on the plains, could seldom be overhauled by a mounted man, but their inquisitiveness was so great that they would often, in herds of a dozen or more, approach our camp through curiosity; and if they did not come close enough to suit us, by displaying a red blanket we could lure them on, almost close enough to knock them over with a stick. Their meat is tender and well flavored, but at certain seasons there is little fat on it and a little bacon cooked with it improves it.

Coming in from grooming the black horse one day, Jack declared:

"The more I handle that horse the better I like him. He's one of the best I ever rubbed a brush over. I've been wondering who that jayhawker could have stole him from an' dreading lest the owner should follow us up an' claim his property, in which case, of course, we'd have to give him up."

"Well, Jack," I replied, "it ain't likely that the owner of the horse, whoever he may be, will ever bother us; and when we hear from the old storekeeper, back where you got him, if no owner has shown up there to inquire about him, then your claim is the next best and he'll be your horse."

"No," said the impulsive Irishman, "ef we're to git to kape him he's to be company property--he'll belong to all of us."

"Well," put in Tom, "I've been thinkin' that the black horse is entitled to a name, anyhow. We've named the mules--or Wild Bill did--'Dink' an' 'Judy' an' the broncos 'Polly' an' 'Vinegar'; now, what'll we call the horse?"

"Why not call him 'Captain Tucker,' after the jayhawker?" I suggested.

"No," promptly objected Jack, "it wouldn't be treatin' the horse fair to call him after such a scoundrel."

"How would 'Black Prince' do?" proposed Tom.

"That suits me better. 'Black Prince' it shall be."

Passing successively Cottonwood Creek, Big and Little Turkey Creeks, Little Arkansas, Jarvis Creek, Big and Little Cow Creeks, we reached Big Bend, the point where the Santa Fé trail, going westward, first strikes the Arkansas River.

Before reaching Big Bend we noticed with uneasiness that the tires on our fore wheels were becoming loose. At Council Grove, where we had had the tires of the hind wheels shrunk and reset, those of the fore wheels had seemed tight enough; but since leaving there the woodwork of the fore wheels had been shrinking more and more each day, until now something must be done to tighten them or we would soon have a broken-down wagon. We had hoped to reach Fort Larned before having to reset these tires, but from Big Bend it was nearly two days' drive to the fort.

Seeing old Tom examining the wheels, I asked:

"Well, Tom, what are we going to do about it? Hadn't we better take them fore wheels off and throw them into the river overnight?"

"No," replied the old man, "that would only help us for a day and by to-morrow night they'd be dry as ever. We'll just give 'em a plainsman's shrinking, an' that's pretty nigh as good as to have a blacksmith cut an' weld an' reset 'em. We'll swell the felloes by puttin' canvas between them an' the tires. The first thing is to unload the wagon."

It was quite a job, but Jack and I soon had the stuff all out and stacked up on the ground.

"Now, prop up the front ex an' take off the wheels."

This was soon accomplished.

"Now, while I knock off the tires you an' Jack can get out your gunny sacks an' carry up a whole lot of buffalo-chips an' pile 'em handy."

By the time we had done this Tom had taken off the tires and laid them down, one on top of the other, raised a couple of inches off the ground by stones placed here and there under them.

"Now pile your chips all round over the tires, 'bout a foot deep, an' then set 'em afire, an' the breeze'll keep the fire a-boomin'; an' while the tires is a-heating bring the wheels up here close by; get that piece of old canvas out o' the wagon; cut some strips from it long as you can git 'em, jist the width of the felloes; get some of the tacks out of the till of the mess-chest; put the canvas strips on the outside of the felloes, draw 'em tight, an' tack 'em here an' there as you go round the wheel until you get about four thicknesses of canvas on; then give the outside layer of canvas a little wettin' so's it won't burn out afore we can git the tire cooled off. Then lay the wheels down handy to the fire, with a rock here an' there under the rims to make 'em lay solid."

When this had all been done:

"Now get the shovel an' scoop out a little, long hole in the ground close by an' keep it filled with water. Bring the pick an' shovel an' spade an' axe an' hatchet an' lay 'em handy. Then fill all the buckets with water an' set 'em close by."

The wind kept the circle of buffalo-chips that covered the tires blazing briskly, and by the time the chips were nearly burnt out we could see that the tires were red-hot and knew that they had expanded enough to drop over the canvassed wheels.

"Now," resumed Tom, "we'll have to work lively an' make no mislicks when we drop a tire over a wheel so's to get it cooled an' shrunk on afore it burns out the canvas. We'll have to use the pick an' spade an' shovel to lift 'em out o' the fire an' drop 'em over the wheels. Peck, you take the pick, Jack the shovel, an' I'll take the spade. When all's ready I'll give the word, an', Peck, you stick the point of your pick under the top tire an' lift it up a little so's me an' Jack can slip our shovel an' spade under it; then the three of us'll lift the tire out of the fire an' lay it in its place over the wheel an' then go to pourin' water on, an' quick as it's shrunk enough to stay on Jack'll run his shovel handle through the hole in the hub, pry the wheel up, an' with one of you on each side, a-holt of the shovel handle, you can hold the wheel over the pool of water with the lower rim in the water while I spin it 'round, an', with axe in one hand an' hatchet in the other, I'll hammer the tire to its place as it shrinks. Now, do you men 'savvy' all them instructions?"

We "savvied," and, following Tom's directions, we soon had both tires nicely reset and shrunk, and it made a very substantial job. It was hot and laborious work and gave us unusually keen appetites for the supper that followed, which Tom prepared, while Jack and I reloaded our wagon.