shaking of the earth and an awful noise, and found the whole herd coming down upon us in a furious run. I was bunking with Monte Harrell, and when I jumped up Harrell tried to hold me, but I jerked loose and ran around to the other side of the wagon. I soon had Mr. Harrell for company. I think every beef must have jumped over the wagon tongue, at least it seemed to me that every steer was jumping it.

From here on we had considerable trouble crossing the creeks and rivers, having to float our wagons across. When we reached one of these streams that was on a rise three or four men would swing on behind each wagon to hold it down until we got into the water, then the men would swim alongside the oxen and guide them across.

After going about three hundred miles without seeing anyone or knowing our exact location, we came to the old military road running north. That day about noon two negro soldiers came to our camp mounted on two big fine government horses. They asked me for grub and I told them I had none cooked, and as brother George spoke rather harsh to them, they rode away, going by one of the other herds. After they had passed on, two young men with one of the other outfits decided to follow these negroes and take their horses away from them, suspecting that they were not in rightful possession of the animals. When they overtook the negroes a fight ensued in which one of the boys was killed. The other boy returned to us one of the government horses and told us of the affair. We went out and found the body and buried it there on the trail, using axes and knives to dig the grave with. I have forgotten the murdered boy's name, but he was from Texas. The negroes, we learned afterwards, were deserters from the army. We found the other government horse grazing near where the fight took place, the negroes having secured the horses belonging to these two boys and made their escape on them.

The next day I was about a mile behind the herd with

the chuck wagon and four Indians came up. They grunted and asked for "tarbucket," so I grabbed the tar bucket and gave it to them, but they shook their heads and put their hands in my pockets, took all of my tobacco, gave another grunt, and went off with the tar bucket. In camp that night my brother asked why I permitted them to take our tar, but I replied that I was glad they did not take my scalp.

A few days later as we were traveling along we saw ahead of us something that looked like a ridge of timber, but which proved to be about four hundred Comanches who were coming our way. They were on the warpath and going to battle with another tribe. When they came up to our herd they began killing our beeves without asking permission or paying any attention to us. Some of the boys of our herd went out to meet them, but the boys of the other herds hid out in the grass, and only one man from the other outfit came to us. They killed twenty-five of our beeves and skinned them right there, eating the flesh raw and with blood running down their faces, reminding me of a lot of hungry dogs. Here I witnessed some of the finest horsemanship I ever saw. The young warriors on bareback ponies would ride all over the horses' backs, off on one side, standing up, laying down, going at full speed and shooting arrows clear through the beeves. We were powerless to help ourselves, for we were greatly outnumbered. Every time we would try to start the herd the Indians would surround the herd and hold it. Finally they permitted us to move on, and we were not slow in moving, either. I felt greatly relieved, and they could have left us sooner without my permission. These Indians had "talked peace" with Uncle Sam, that is all that saved us. We heard a few days afterwards that they had engaged in battle with their foes after leaving us, and had been severely whipped, losing about half of their warriors.

In 1869 Colonel John D. Miles was appointed Indian

agent by President Grant and served in this capacity in Kansas and the Indian Territory, for the Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Kiowas and Comanches, which tribes frequently went on the warpath in those days, making it very dangerous for the trail drivers. We met Colonel Miles the next day after the Indians had attacked our herd, and he made a note of the number of beeves they had killed belonging to us, and said he would report it to Washington, and we would receive pay for all we had lost. He was traveling alone in a hack on his way to some fort, and to me he looked very lonely in that wild. and woolly country.

When we reached the Canadian River we found it on a big rise, so we decided to stop there a few days and allow our herd to graze while waiting for the river to go down. While we were there a man came along one day and warned us to be on the lookout for Indians, saying they were liable to attack us at any time. He passed on, and the next day we crossed the river and after traveling about ten miles we came to a pool of water where we found this man's clothes on the bank. Investigation revealed that he had been stripped and dumped into the pool.

We reached the Arkansas River, where we had a little trouble getting across. There were a few houses on the Kansas side, and we began to rejoice that we were once more getting within the boundaries of civilization. Here we found a store and plenty of "booze," and some of the boys got "full." After leaving that wayside oasis we did not see another house until we were within ten miles of Abilene. We had several stampedes in that region.

One evening Monte Harrell said the prospects were good for a storm that night, and sure enough we had a regular Kansas twister. We had prepared for it by driving a long stake pin into the ground, to which I chained the wagon, and making everything as safe as possible. At midnight the storm was on, and within a moment

everything was gone except the wagon and myself. The cattle stampeded, horses got loose, and oxen and all went with the herd. The storm soon spent its fury and our men managed to hold the cattle until daylight and got them all back the next morning and we resumed our drive to Abilene, reaching there in a few days. Abilene at this time was just a small town on a railroad, consisting of three saloons, one store and two hotels. Here we tarried to graze and fatten our cattle for market, and as several of the hands were not needed, they were paid off and allowed to return home, I being among the number.

While we were in Abilene, we found the town was full of all sorts of desperate characters, and I remember one day one of these bad men rode his horse into a saloon, pulled his gun on the bartender, and all quit business. When he came out several others began to shoot up the town. I was not feeling well, so I went over to the hotel to rest, and in a short time the boys of our outfit missed me and instituted a search, finding me at the hotel under a bed.

The next day we made preparations to start back to Texas, and went on the train to Junction City, Kansas, to get our outfit. It was the first train I ever rode on, and I thought the thing was running too fast, but a brakeman told me it was behind time and was trying to make up the schedule. We secured our outfit, took in several men wanting to come to Texas, elected a boss and started for home. The second night out we camped in a little. grove of timber and during the night a storm struck us, another one of those Kansas zephyrs that was calculated to blow hell off the range. I located a stump and anchored myself to it, while the boss, a long-legged fellow, had secured a death grip on a sapling near me. During the progress of the storm his feet were constantly in my way, flying around and striking my shins and knocking the bark off the stump I was hanging to for dear life. I could hear him trying to pray, but I was so busy

at that particular time that I did not pay much attention to what he was saying. The wind would pick us up and flop our bodies against the ground with great force, but I hung to that stump and got through all right.

We reached Fort Gibson, on the Arkansas, and here we were compelled to stay a week on account of high water. The boys chipped in and bought a lot of whiskey at this place, paying twelve dollars a gallon for it. I opposed buying the whiskey because it was a serious offense to convey it into the Indian Territory, but they bought it anyway, and after we had started on our way again some trouble arose among the outfit. One day an old Indian brought a horse and outfit to our camp and I bought this outfit, paying the Indian seventy-five dollars for it, so I left the bunch and pulled out alone through the Indian country. I reached Red River safely and made it through to my home without mishap, reaching there with only seventy-five cents in my pocket.

In conclusion I will say that I have seen cowboys who had been in the saddle for twenty-four hours without sleep or anything to eat, come into camp, lay down on a log and go to sleep almost instantly, and sleep sound with the rain pouring down and water four inches all around them. All of the boys who were with me on this trip mentioned above are dead except one, William McBride. I was twenty years old when I made that trip; I am now seventy years old.

THE MAN WHO HAD HELL IN HIS NECK

By Ab. Blocker of San Antonio, Texas

I was born three miles south of Austin, Texas, January 30, 1856, and spent my boyhood days in farm and ranch work. In 1876 I went to Blanco County to work for my brother, John R. Blocker, on his ranch, roping