I happened to think of a recitation I had learned at school when I was a little boy, so I wrote as follows: "It's tiresome work says lazy Ned, to climb the hill in my new sled, and beat the other boys. Signed, Your Bulliest Friend, JACK POTTER."

We then boarded the I. & G. N. for San Antonio, and at Austin a lively bunch joined us, including Hal Gosling, United States Marshal, Captain Joe Sheeley and Sheriff Quigley of Castroville. Pretty soon the porter called out "San Antonio, Santonnie-o," and that was music to my ears. My first move on getting off the train was to look for my trunk and found it had arrived. I said to myself, "Jack Potter, you're a lucky dog. Ticket held out all right, toe nails all healed up, and trunk came through in good shape." After registering at the Central Hotel, I wrote to that general ticket agent at Denver as follows:

San Antonio, Texas, Oct. 5th, 1882.

Gen. Ticket Agt. A. T. & S. F.,

1415 Lamar St., Denver, Colo.:

DEAR SIR-I landed in San Antonio this afternoon all O. K. My trunk also came through without a scratch. I want to thank you very much for the man you sent along to look after my trunk. He was very accommodating, and would not allow me to assist him in loading it on at Denver. No doubt he will want to see some of the sights of San Antonio, for it is a great place, and noted for its chili con carne. When he takes a fill of this food, as every visitor does, you can expect him back in Denver on very short notice, as he will be seeking a cooler climate. Did you ever eat any chili con carne? I will send you a dozen cans soon, but tell your wife to keep it in the refrigerator as it might set the house on fire. Thank you again for past favors.

Your Bulliest Friend,

JACK POTTER.

(EDITOR'S NOTE.-The foregoing will be read with much interest by the old cowboys who worked the range and traveled the trail with Jack Potter. Mr. Potter is now a prosperous stockman, owning large ranch interests in Oklahoma and New Mexico. He is the son of Rev. Jack Potter, the "Fighting Parson," who was known to all the early settlers of West Texas. The above article is characteristic of the humor and wit of this rip-roaring, hell-raising cow-puncher, who, George Saunders says, and other friends concur in the assertion, was considered to be the most cheerful liar on the face of the earth. But he was always the life of the outfit in camp or on the trail.)

WHEN A GIRL MASQUERADED AS A COWBOY AND SPENT FOUR MONTHS ON THE TRAIL

By Samuel Dunn Houston, San Antonio, Texas

My first trip was from Southern Texas, in the spring of 1876. Mac Stewart was foreman. The cattle belonged to Ellison & Dewees. In the

spring of 1877 and 1878 I was on the trail with Bill Green with the Ellison & Dewees cattle. In the spring of 1879 I was on the trail with Len Pierce, but when we crossed the Cimarron, the boys all went to the Longhorn Roundup and got too much whiskey, went to camp, made a rough house and fired Mr. Pierce. He went to Dodge City and we put John Saunders of Lockhart in charge of the herd. the spring, 1880, I was on the with the Head & Bishop cattle. In the spring, 1881, I was on the trail with Monroe Hardeman, Head & Bishop cattle. In 1882 I went with George Wilcox, Head & Bishop cattle. In 1883 I worked for Captain B. L. Crouch in Frio County. In 1884 I went on the trail with two

S. D. HOUSTON

Pierce was no good. In trail with Henry Miller,

herds for Captain Crouch, spring herd and fall herd. In the fall, 1884, I was ordered to Seven Rivers, New Mexico, by Captain Crouch to help deliver the Joe Crouch cattle which the Captain had sold to the Holt Live Stock Company, after Joe Crouch had died.

I was on the range during the year 1885.

In the spring, 1886, I went to work for the Holt Live Stock Company and was promoted trail foreman and drove my first herd for that company in the spring of 1886, and was trail boss for the company until 1893. I would take off the spring herd and drive from one to two feeder herds to the Corn Belt country down on the Cimarron. That year I was on the trail almost the year around. One winter I didn't get back from the third trip until the last of January. I expect I have made more trips over the cow trail from Southern Texas and New Mexico than any man in the country.

In the fall of 1893 I came back to my old home to die, but I am still living and able to do a man's work every day. I live in San Antonio with my good wife and three nice daughters, and keep my gun at the head of my bed to keep the young, up-to-date cowboys away.

Now I am going to write a sketch of a trip I made while I was with the Holt Live Stock Company of New Mexico, in the spring, 1888.

I was hiring men for the spring drive and they were not very plentiful in that country, but as luck was on my side, I heard that there were four men at Seven Rivers who had come up from Texas and wanted work. I got in my chuck wagon, went to Seven Rivers and found what I was looking for, so that completed my outfit.

In a few days I went up the Pecos to the spring round-up and took charge of the steer herd of twentyfive hundred three's and up. George Wilcox, the ranch boss, counted them out to me and said, "Sam, they are yours."

I lined up my men, drifted over toward Roswell, and did fine the first night. We passed around town the next morning, and camped that night on Salt Creek. I picked the wrong place to bed the herd, so about nine pin they broke, and we didn't get them stopped until four o'clock in the morning. I told the boys we had lost half of the herd. Just as soon as daylight came I had everything in the saddle to move the herd off the bed ground. I counted them and I was out six hundred and thirty-five head of steers. I left four men with the herd and cut for sign. I found where they had struck the Pecos River and went down that stream. We struck a gallop and found the entire bunch, six miles down the river. They showed they had been in a stampede for they were as green as the grass itself.

When I got back to camp I found the cause of the stampede. I had failed to go over the bed ground the evening before and I found I had bedded the herd on high ground and on the worst gopher holes I could have found in that country. I was out only four or five head and they were close to the range.

I had a boy with me by the name of Gus Votaw. He was about twenty years old, and was the son of Billie Votaw, who all the old-timers knew in San Antonio. Gus made a good hand.

That day while drifting along up the Pecos River I went ahead to hunt a watering place and when I rode up on a gyp hill overlooking the herd I saw six or seven men in a bunch. I went down to the herd to know the cause and hand out a few orders. When I got to them I found the four men I had secured at Seven Rivers were gunmen and had been playing pranks on Gus Votaw. I told them they would have to cut that out and they didn't say yes or no, so I kept my eyes open from there on. In a few days I caught one of them at the same thing and I read the law to him and when I got them all in camp I told them that I was going to run the outfit and such

things as that must be cut out right now. I also told Gus that if they worried him any more to let me know.

I will leave off now from here to Fort Sumner, New Mexico, which was less than a month.

I arrived at Fort Sumner in less than a month and had to stop and write some letters, so I told the cook and horse rustler to take the wagon and camp it up the river and for the cook to have dinner early, for I would be there about ten o'clock.

I finished my job at the postoffice, mounted my horse and pulled out for camp. When I got up within two hundred yards of camp I looked up and saw what I thought, every man in camp and only one man with the herd. When I rode up every man had a gun in his hand but Gus Votaw. I got off my horse and, of course, knew the cause. The cook said, "Boss, there is going to be hell here. I am glad you came.

I went to the front of the wagon, got my gun off of the water barrel and told the men that I would play my trump card, that I had to have every gun in camp. I didn't expect to live to get the last one, but I did. I got six of them, knocked the loads out, threw them in the wagon, got out my time and check books and gave the four men their time. I told the cook and horse rustler to hitch up the mules and we would move camp. I left the four bad men sitting on their saddles under a cottonwood tree and felt that I had done the right thing. I went up the river about two miles and camped.

After all this occurred, right here my troubles began. I had to leave the Pecos River and drive across the Staked Plains, ninety miles without water. The next water was the Canadian River. Being short handed, I had to put my horses in the herd, put the horse rustler with the herd and made a hand myself. I held the herd over that day and rested, raised the men's wages five dollars, and made my plans. The next day we had dinner