had to ride back and forth, as there was always a muley or a one-eyed steer leaving the herd, and further back, especially the rear, you had the lazy and sore-footed cattle to keep moving. The best place around a herd while on the move-that is, if you want to keep well posted in cuss words-is the tail. At times the boys will not only cuss the cattle, but cuss each other and everything else in sight or hearing.

Now about my first $5.00 bill. I saw a small piece of paper in a fence corner, and as the cattle seemed quiet, I got down and picked it up, simply because I was hungry for something to read, if not more than one or two words. We did not have papers forwarded to us while on the trail. Well, I read that it was good for $5.00. I had never seen one before, so after crossing our herd, and when we struck camp for dinner, showed it to the boss. He said that it was sure enough good money, so I rolled it up stuck it away down in the pocket of my leather leggins. Money was of no value on the trail, as there was no place to spend it, but I valued that $5.00 more than any $5.00 I have ever had since. One day while at dinner the negro cook offered to bet me a two-year-old heifer he had in the herd against my five dollars that he could beat me shooting, only one shot each. I was good with a pistol, but I knew the cook was hard to beat. But I did not get nervous, as the two-year-old was about six to one if I won. One of the boys got a little piece of a board, took a coal out of the campfire, made a black spot about the size of a twenty-five-cent piece, stepped off fifteen steps (about 45 feet) and yelled, "All ready, shoot." I was to shoot first. I jerked my old cap and ball Navy out and just about one second before I pulled the trigger I saw the heads of six Indians just over a little rise in the ground coming toward the camp. This excited me so that I did not hit the spot, only about onehalf of my bullet touched the board just to the right of the target. I yelled to the negro, "Shoot quick! Look at

the Indians!" By that time we could see them plainly on top of the rise. He fired, but never touched the board. So six big Osage Indians saved me my valuable find-the five-dollar bill.

We bedded our cattle for the last time near Abilene, Kansas. The boss let myself and another boy go to, the city one day. As it had been a long time since we had seen a house or a woman, they were good to look at. I wore a black plush hat which had a row of small stars around the rim, with buck-skin strings to tie and hold on my head. We went into town, tied our ponies, and the first place we visited was a saloon and dance hall. We ordered toddies like we had seen older men do, and drank them down, for we were dry, very dry, as it had been a long ways between drinks. I quit my partner, as he had a girl to talk to, so I went out and in a very short time I went into another store and saloon. I got another toddy, my hat began to stiffen up, but I pushed it up in front, moved my pistol to where it would be handy, then sat down on a box in the saloon and picked up a newspaper and thought I would read a few lines, but my two toddies were at war, so I could not very well understand what I read. I got up and left for more sights—you have seen them in Abilene, Dodge City and any other place those days. I walked around for perhaps an hour. The two toddies were making me feel different to what I had felt for months, and I thought it was about time for another, so I headed for a place across the street, where I could hear a fiddle. It was a saloon, gambling and dance hall. Here I saw an old long-haired fellow dealing monte. I went to the bar and called for a toddy, and as I was drinking it a girl came up and put her little hand under my chin, and looked me square in the face and said, "Oh, you pretty Texas boy, give me a drink." I asked her what she wanted and she said anything I took, so I called for two toddies. My, I was getting rich fast-a pretty girl and plenty of whiskey. My old hat was now away

back on my head. My boss had given me four dollars spending money and I had my five-dollar bill, so I told the girl that she could make herself easy; that I was going to break the monte game, buy out the saloon, and keep her to run it for me when I went back to Texas for my other herd of cattle. Well, I went to the old longhaired dealer, and as he was making a new layout I put my five on the first card (a king) and about the third pull I won. I now had ten dollars and I thought I had better go and get another toddy before I played again. As I was getting rich so fast, I put the two bills on the tray and won. Had now twenty dollars, so I moved my hat back as far as it would go and went to get a drinkanother toddy, but my girl was gone. I wanted to show her that I was not joking about buying out the saloon after I broke the bank. After this drink things did not look so good. I went back and it seemed to me that I did not care whether I broke him or not. I soon lost all I had won and my old original five. When I quit him my hat was becoming more settled, getting down in front, and I went out, found my partner and left for camp. The next morning, in place of owning a saloon and going back to Texas after my other herds, I felt-oh! what's the use? You old fellows know how I felt.

The winter of 1868 was spent having a good cowboy time. Wherever my horse, saddle and hat were I was there, spending my trail money. When spring came on I helped to get together one herd, branded a lot of mavericks and sleepers. But there was a little freckled face girl that I had danced a lot with in the winter months, so I made up my mind that I would stay in Texas that year, 1869. I fiddled, danced and worked cattle over a territory as big as the state of Maine. A ranch fifty years ago was not measured by acres or miles-they were boundless. Schools and churches back in the wild days were not handy and most of the ranchmen and cowboys did not care. No mails, no papers, neighbors miles apart,

what could one expect from such a wild life? We would civilize up a bit when we went to a dance; that is, we would take off our spurs and tie a clean red handkerchief around our neck.

I drove beeves from the W. B. G. Grimes pens on the Leona to Matagorda Bay in the winter of 1869, then hired to John Redus on the Hondo, where I finished the winter. In the early spring of 1870 I helped him get together 2,000 of the wildest longhorns that was ever started up the trail. They were travelers when strung out, but were inclined to stampede in front, the middle or rear. It did not take us long to mill them if in an open country, but in timber that was different. I took sick this side of Waco and left the herd horseback for the Redus ranch on the Hondo. I punched cattle, fiddled and danced some years after, getting wilder all the time, until I met a curly-headed girl from Atascosa County, fell in love and married. It took her a long time to tame me. But she did, and for the last fifteen or twenty years I do not have to be tied. Just drop the reins on the ground, I'll stay there.

SLAKED THEIR THIRST IN A DRY TOWN

By A. D. McGehee, San Marcos, Texas

I was born in Hays County, four miles below San Marcos, October 17, 1857, and have never lived out of this county. I was raised on a farm, and on December 17, 1876, I was married to Miss Fannie Johnson. We raised six children to be grown, three girls and three boys, and we think they are all pretty good cattle, but do not know if they are much improvement over the old stock.

I first went up the trail in 1868, when I was just eleven years old, with my brother, George T. McGehee. We drove from Belton to Abilene, Kansas. The trail

then went by the village of Dallas, crossed the Red River at Colbert's Ferry, near where Denison is now located. At Abilene I met several of the old Texas drivers, among them being Colonel Meyers of Lockhart, Captain E. and Lonnie Millett of Seguin, Doc Day, and others. After holding the cattle at Abilene for about thirty days we shipped them over the M. P. Railroad to Springfield, Illinois, and put them in pastures belonging to W. K. and Joe McCoy, who were commission merchants, and sold them to farmers for feeders. I returned home by way of New Orleans that fall, taking about two weeks to make the trip.

After this for about ten years I went to school a little and stayed on the farm until 1879, when I went into the cattle business altogether, buying, selling and ranching. Started a ranch in 1883 in Pecos County, which I later consolidated with the Toyah Land & Cattle Co., of which M. Locker of Galveston was president. Associated with me in this company was J. M. Nance, H. Hillman, W. T. Jackman and W. C. Johnson. Sold out in 1886 and I, with Sam Head and Bill Jackman, delivered to Ike T. Pryor 3,200 cattle at Brady City to be driven to Wyoming.

In 1885, in connection with Bill Good, H. G. Williams, Bunton & Jackman, I drove 9,000 cattle from the Stafford ranch in Colorado County to Trail City, Colorado.

In 1886 I again drove to Trail City, Colorado, and sold out at Pueblo. From that time up to 1906 I was engaged in feeding and handling with M. A. Withers of Lockhart and H. C. Storey of San Marcos.

From 1906 I was tax collector of Hays County for twelve years. Since that time I have been handling a few cattle, and for a while engaged in shipping horses north.

I remember a little incident that happened on one trip. I fell in with D. S. Combs and about daylight one morning we loaded at Burlington, Iowa, and started up the