cow-puncher, constituted himself a court of inquiry and began plying me with questions. He asked me if I had ever been up the trail, and who I drove for. I told him I went up the trail the year before, and drove for Chisholm. I had the idea that Chisholm owned all the cattle in Texas. Then Horton asked me where I drove to, and I told him Wichita. Next he asked me where I crossed the Brazos, and I said Fort Graham, and that I crossed the Red River at Red River Station. When he wanted to know what river Wichita was located on, I had to study for a moment, then said "Arkansas." By this time I was growing nervous. He was also stumped, for he could not figure out how it was that I was so well posted. The fact of the matter is Ad Lindsey, who had been over the route, had told me these things, and I had not forgotten. For a little while Horton let up on me, but finally came back with the question: "Where does the bridge cross the river at Wichita?" This was a stunner, but I said, "Kinder toward the lower edge of town." He had me, as there was no bridge there at that time. Of course, I thought it was back to the farm for me, but Sam Driskill, the boss, who had heard the whole discussion, came to my rescue and said, "Kid, I had discovered you were a green hand in this business, but I see you are willing, and I had rather have one willing hand than one too lazy to perform his duties." I was much relieved and right there I determined to give the best service I was capable of giving. We remained at the Day. ranch about two weeks, and then moved on to the Baggett ranch, near where Temple is now, for our next and last stop. We completed our herd there and started on our long journey. Jess Driskill and Dock Day were the owners of the herd. Jess Driskill built the Driskill Hotel at Austin. An incident occurred at the Baggett ranch, which while a little personal, I think is worthy of mention, as it will show how green and foolish I was. A down easter, whose name I have forgotten, had been employed. He was about thirty years old and weighed 230 pounds. Aside from being a greenhorn he was really too heavy for trail work, and the bunch wanted to get rid of him, and set about to do this very thing, while I was made the "goat." The boys began to carry news to him of talks I had made about him, and from him they brought yarns to me. Of course neither of us had said anything about the other. We all carried the old style cap-andball navy pistols, as was the custom in those days. One evening while I was holding the cattle, the evening relief came out and this big 230-pounder made straight toward me, saying that I had talked about him long enough and he was going to put a stop to it. I had been told by the other boys that the trouble was coming, and to open up on him when it started, which I proceeded to do. I shot at him six times as he was coming toward me, aiming at his paunch, but he did not fall. Now mind you, the boys had previously extracted the bullets from my pistol, and I was shooting only wads, but I did not know it. The wads set his clothing afire, and also the sage grass, and it took us several hours to put out the prairie fire. The "wounded" man ran off, left his horse, went to camp, got his time, and quit, just what the bunch wanted him to do. The boys told me that I would be arrested when we got to Fort Worth, and advised me to go to the boss and get a horse and leave the herd, scout along in the neighborhood for a few days, and fall in again. I took it all in like a sucker, until I asked Sam Driskill for the horse. Sam told me then it was all a put-up job, and to pay no attention to them. From that time on I got along very well. When we arrived at Hayes, Kansas, 500 beeves were cut out and left there or driven to Ellsworth and held for a time. John Driskill was left in charge of the beeves. He now lives at Sabinal, Texas. There were twenty-three men in our outfit, but I can remember only the following: Orland Driskill, Sam Dris kill, Dallas Driskill, Tol Driskill, Pres Horton, Charlie Raymond, Eberly Peters, John Rutledge, Tom Evans, Mills, one of the cooks, and Bill Hicks, my guard mate. Near Fort Hayes we rested up on the Smoky River two weeks. A storm there stampeded our cattle and they mixed up with six or seven herds camped there at that time, and it took us several days to separate them. We traveled a northwest course from Hayes to Platte River below Fort Sidney, and went to a point about forty miles this side of Cheyenne, Wyoming, and on to the Snyder Ranch near the foot of the Black Hills, where we delivered the cattle to the new owners. I was offered employment on this ranch at $40 per month, with the privilege of investing my savings, but that country was too cold for me. I was told the snow remained on the ground seven months in the year. Some of us came back to Ellsworth, Kansas, where I helped John Driskill hold beeves for a month, then I took train for Texas, well satisfied that I had enough trail driving. While this is the only trip I ever made up the trail, I have seen much of the old trail drivers, and my hat is off to them. A truer type of manhood never existed in this or any other country. I now live at 3020 West Commerce St., San Antonio, Texas, where I own a comfortable home. I married Miss Ella Michell of Uvalde, November 8, 1888, and we have four children living. Our oldest child died August 8, 1912. NO FRIENDS LIKE THE OLD TRAIL DRIVERS G. M. Carson, Rocksprings, Texas I was raised in Blanco county, Texas. My father, John Carson and Mary Jane, my good Christian mother, who have long since gone to their reward, moved from Mississippi in the early 50's and they settled in East Texas for a few years, then moved to Blanco county, and settled a ranch about four miles east of Blanco City, on the Blanco River, with a small bunch of horses and G. M. CARSON cattle. In 1861, father joined the Confederate army and when he returned in 1865, broke and no market for cattle until 1870, he sold 200 aged steers to Tom Johnson. His ranch and branding pens were where the town of Johnson City now stands. Father went up the trail with this herd to Abilene, Kansas, in 1878. I went on the trail with one of John R. Blocker's herds. A short sketch of this trip is in the first volume of the "Trail Drivers of Texas." I moved with my family from the old home town in 1904 to Rocksprings, Edwards county, where we now live. There are no friends like The old time Trail Drivers, We greet them when we meet them, As roses greet the dew, No other friends are dearer Though born of kindred mould, There are no friends like The old time Trail Drivers In lands beyond the ocean Or near the bounds of home, There are no friends like The old time Trail Drivers, To help us with the load That all must bear that journey O'er life's uneven road The weary hours invest The kindly words of Old Trail Drivers There are no friends like The old time Trail Drivers To calm our frequent fears, We'll long to meet the Old Trail Drivers DOCK BURRIS WAS WELL KNOWN The following article was written by J. B. Polly of Floresville, Texas, and published in the San Antonio Express, July 17, 1910: The old settler of Karnes county that did not know Dock Burris was himself unknown. As a cowboy, Texas Ranger and soldier in the Confederate Army, none was ever more expert, adventurous and gallant. The bronco he could not ride and tame was never foaled, the cow or steer he could not rope and tie down never roamed the prairies of West Texas, and the Yankee soldier that, given any chance at all he could not outwit, never drew a bounty during the war, nor has drawn a pension since. Mr. Burris related the following incidents in his career: "I was born on Galveston Island on August 24, 1840. In 1855, desirous of seeing more of life than I could while surrounded by salt water, I went to Karnes county and |