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Not Hitherto Published—1947.

By John T. Bristow

When harvesting sumac, often barefooted and always barehanded, we boys, sons of the tanner, had to keep a sharp lookout for rattlesnakes—and Texas cattle. We were repeatedly so warned by our parents. Also, it was generally understood that all children should “watchout” for Indians. This, however, did not greatly disturb us after we had made friends with Eagle Eye.

Then, one day, while cutting sumac for the tannery, with my brother Charley, near a timbered ravine three miles out southeast, close to the Oliver Logue farm, a long-horn steer, out of a large herd, chased me up a tree early in the afternoon and held me prisoner in the treetop until the riders, Abe Williams and John Taylor, came to round up the herd for the night.

I thought that steer would surely butt his horns off, the way he rammed that six-inch tree. He would back off, paw the ground, shake his slobbering head, and come snorting at the tree again and again. After quieting down, he grazed fitfully and frightfully close to the tree—and he came trotting in several times with something ugly on his bovine mind, I’m sure. Even now I wonder is it possible for an enraged cowbrute to have red eyes.

The day herder, at ease, on a ridge a quarter mile to the west—probably reading a Frank Merriwell baseball story—was letting the herd feed north, and so long as the cattle did not attempt to go over the rise to the east, out of sight, Wes Shuemaker would have no occasion to ride down my way. And it would have been futile for me to have tried to call him, with a south wind blowing forty-fifty mph.

My brother was safely on the other side of the ravine close to trees, but he slipped out the back way and went home. I knew he was doing the right thing. And I knew too that I would remain in the tree until the arrival of the riders. Those Texas cattle behaved nicely for mounted men, but they could not abide a person on foot.

I really had no business on that side of the ravine, with those cattle feeding there—but I guess I was, as always, a little too venturesome. I knew that herd had some bad actors in it. In fact, I had been warned to never get off my horse when riding as relief herder of that same herd, on several occasions. And one time while all alone at the dinner hour my mount, in jumping a ditch, broke the saddle girth and spilled me on a rattlesnake infested prairie, amongst those longhorns—with not a tree in sight.

However, nothing untoward happened. Had my luck been running true to form, there should have been at least one rattlesnake coiled on the margin of the shallow ditch into which I squeezed myself, and waited in misery for the day herder to return. As I lay in the ditch I just had to recall the time, a short while before, when a rattlesnake, coiled by a cowpath, struck as I trotted past—barefoot, of course—and got his fangs hooked in my trouser leg, requiring two wild jumps to dislodge his snakeship.

The herd was owned by Than Morris and Abe Williams, the latter a brother of Mrs. Jake Wolfley. Morris and Wolfley were brothers-in-law. John Taylor, herder, was a son of Hebe Taylor, of Atchison. John Taylor was later bailiff of the Nemaha county court, in Seneca. And he was the father of Earl W. Taylor for whom the Seneca American Legion Post was named. Hebe Taylor also, at one time, ran cattle in the open country southwest of Wetmore — with Ed. Keggin.

Charley went straight to the Morris general store in Wetmore and told Than of my predicament, and Morris immediately rounded up two cowpunchers. John Taylor, working with a herd to the southwest, chanced to be in town, and rode out with Abe Williams.

The herd had grazed on past my tree-perch. The unruly steer did not follow, but if the critter was capable of the sound thinking I was willing to credit him with, “I betcha” he always wished he had. A good cowhand could play a tune with a cattlewhip on a critter’s rump, under dead run. And John Taylor was good. He lashed his short-handled 10-foot whip overhead to the steer’s rump, right and left, with rhythmic timing, making the hair fly with each crack. The steer’s hindparts, seemingly trying to outrun his foreparts, swung to the right and swung to the left with clocklike regularity—and he thus wove himself deep into the herd, bawling “bloody murder.”

When told of John Taylor’s adroitness with the whip, my father said, “I wouldn’t care to tan his hide”—meaning the steer’s, of course. While father bought the hides from the lost dead of all those big herds—sometimes the losses in the early spring were heavy—he tanned only a few of them. He didn’t like to tan a mutilated hide, nor the hide of a branded critter—and he wouldn’t tan a grubby murrain hide.

Thus it was, I herded the cattle that produced the hides that made the leather which I helped make into shoes—all while still in my teens. My apprenticeship as a shoemaker began by holding a candle for my father to work by, at night. And if you could think it was not a wearying task for a sleepy boy, you can think again. The light would have to be shifted from side to side with each stitch as he sewed the soles on shoes. By midnight he usually ran out of “endearing” terms by which to bring me to attention—and he was willing to call it a day. Sometimes my mother would relieve me of this chore, but too often at such times she would be engaged in sewing up the side seams of a new boot, with awl and waxed thread. While I did a lot of repair work satisfactorily, I made out and out only three pairs of shoes. And though always behind with his orders, my father very wisely demanded that I make them all to my own measures.

Might add that we boys, sons of the tanner, and other rough and ready town boys—just to be doing something of our very own—tanned, in the big leather vats, squirrel hides, coon skins, and, of all things, two rattlesnake skins. Wes Shuemaker proudly wore the belt made of those rattlesnake skins for a long time.

Dr. Holland was another Atchison man who, in partnership with his brother-in-law, Mr. Prunty, of Soldier, ran a large herd southwest of town. His corral, a 10-acre pine board enclosure, was in the northwest corner of the Harry Cawood quarter. The land was then owned by Billy Cline, of Soldier. Where there were no corrals, a night herder would have to stay with the cattle.

The Bradford spring—now known as the Joe Pfrang spring—gushing up from a hilltop, was the main attraction for those early day cattlemen. Just how the free range was divided up to carry several individual herds, without clashing, I do not know—but there were no cattle feuds, and no gunplay.

NOTE—The values in cattle, as with everything else, ran low in the old days. An instance: In 1861, Bill Porter had a hard time raising money to pay taxes on two quarters of land. Unable to borrow $7.20, the troublesome amount, he walked and led a big fat cow to Leavenworth, and sold her for $7.50. In marked contrast, Garrett Bartley of Powhattan, son-in-law of Bill Porter, the second, reports a neighbor of his recently sold a 2,000 pound cow on the St. Joseph market for $540.00. I think the herds corralled here and grazed around the Bradford spring were bought for as little as $5 to $8 per head. This year—1950—Joe Pfrang, present owner of the Bradford spring and surrounding acres, bought, in May, a bunch of 700-pound steers for approximately $160.00 each—and after running them on pasture, the same wild grass, with some acres now planted to tame grass, sold them in the fall off grass, for an average of $270.00; a gain of about $110.00 per head. These steers were Texas-bred cattle, too. But they were not “longhorns.” Herefords never are. And likely the Pfrang 1,000-pound steers, out of the feed lot, with 300 pounds added weight, would have sold for about $487.50 each. It was a great year for the cattlemen. Beefsteak in the old days in Wetmore was ten cents a pound for the best cuts.

There were, however, some angry threats between the cattlemen and Old Morgan, an outsider, who had run in four thousand sheep on them. I helped shepherd that flock, And I discovered early that by looping a pebble in the cracker end of my cattle-whip, and sending it over them a little to the outside of the straying sheep that I could bring them back into the fold without effort. Also, the singing noise of the pebble thrown over the flock would divide the sheep into two bunches. I really became quite good at this thing, and played with the discovery a lot — until one day when the missile did not sail true, and a sheep had to hobble home on three legs. We were in the hills south of the creek. The poor little lamb got no help until after the flock had passed over the bridge at the east end of town. Old Morgan usually met us there. Luckily, he was tuned up properly and did all the talking. He threatened to sue the township for permitting a hole to remain open in the bridge. This, I like to think, was the one black mark against my rather diversified career. A sheep herder in a cattle country rated pretty low. Cattle would not graze after sheep. I quit Old Morgan before the season was over.

The cattle herder’s main function was to keep the herds from mixing, and to keep the cattle clear of the creek-bottom farms and the few isolated prairie farms; and also to keep them out of mischief in general, such as running down careless boys—and free of dogs. A dog could always start a stampede. And a cattle stampede was something to be dreaded, in the old days. When those Texas cattle and dogs mixed there was sure to be loud bellowings and a great clashing of hoofs and horns. I have a clear picture of my Uncle Nick’s herd of longhorns, after running themselves down, milling about on the range adjacent to his Wolfley creek farm—milling in a compact bunch, when one could look out upon a sea of horns; nothing but horns.

It was quite the thing for local men who had a little cash, or backing, to take a hand in the cattle game. My Uncle Nick Bristow and Roland Van Amburg contracted for a large herd of those longhorns from Dr. W. L. Challis, cattle broker of Atchison. The cattle were fresh from Texas—brought up over the famed Chisholm trail. Uncle Nick and Van divided the herd, and after running the cattle on grass, tried to carry them through a rather severe winter on prairie hay alone. Those fresh longhorns would not eat corn. The cattle were so weakened by spring that when turned out on grass they mired down in creeks and water holes all over the range. They died in bunches, almost to the last head. And while that cattle deal cost my Uncle his farm, Van said it cost him only his “britches.” Roland Van Amburg was a grand old sport, with a great capacity for seeing the “funny” side of life—and up or down, financially, he was always the same cheery Van.

Other men got out of their Texas cattle speculations less lucky. Dave Garvin, besides losing a lot of his hard-earned money, had to take the “rest cure” for nearly a year. However, those who confined their speculations, within their means, to native-bred cattle made money. John Thornburrow, starting from scratch, amassed a small fortune. Charley Hutchison, a mere boy, scion of a wealthy’ brewer family, sent out here from Ohio to sober up, and put on a section of wild land, made a pile of money from his herds — and more, he became a teetotaler, a solid, honorable citizen. Fred Achten, a fifteen dollar a month farm hand, built the foundation for the Achten Empire, the largest land holdings in the country, largely on cattle and free grass.

Also, John Rebensdorf, a German farm hand, after marrying Christine Zabel and settling down, made plenty of money running cattle on free grass. Rebensdorf was oddly a thrifty man. By no means an inveterate tippler, he liked, occasionally, to pay for his own beer—and drink it himself. Time and again I have seen him ride into town, tie his horse at the rack in the middle of the street in front of the saloon, go in, and, elbow himself a place at the bar, order three quart bottles of beer—always three bottles. When he had leisurely emptied the third bottle he was ready to pipe. “I’ze zee richest man in zee whole country.” And, at that, the man was not far off in his calculations.

One time, John Rebensdorf and his brother-in-law, Albert Zabel, of German parentage, were engaged in a spirited argument—on a street corner, in my hearing — over something which had to do with cattle and free grass, Albert, a fine Christian gentleman momentarily suffering a lapse of piety, called Rebensdorf all the fighting names in the book—that is, all the names that would rile an American, without perceptibly ruffling him. Albert worked himself up Into a white heat, but he couldn’t bestir John. Rebenstorf would say, “No, Albert, you iss wrong.” He repeated this, meekly, several times. Finally, when Rebensdorf, wearied of the argument, started to walk away, Albert yelled parting shot, “You old sauerkraut, you know I’m right!” Then “zee richest man in zee whole country” turned quickly, came blustering back, shaking his big fat fist, and roared, “By gosh, you call me sauerkraut! Now I fight!”

Also, the residents would often—that is, in season, cut hay off the prairie that had been more or less grazed. One summer my brother Sam and I hauled into town $315.00 Worth, at $2.50 a ton, measured in stack—and much of this was done at night, by moonlight, owing to high winds making it impossible to handle the loose hay by day. Owners of cows in town, as well as in the country, always aimed to have enough hay stored to carry their stock through the winter, but often the supply was found to be short, especially when the winters were unusually severe. Then the speculators who had stored hay against such eventualities, would have an inning—maybe get $3 or $3.50 a ton, in stack. One especially energetic man in the Granada neighborhood, with a couple of confederates, put up an unusual amount of this free hay one season, inside fire breaks—then a prairie fire in the late winter destroyed all the outstacked hay belonging to his neighbors. Then bedlam broke loose among the natives. Still there were no killings.

And, even with all that grazing and mowing there was enough grass left on the south range to make spectacular prairie fires, racing at times, all the way to town—and would even sometimes jump the creek and menace the town.

Here is one more of the many incidents attributable to the free grass range. Without refrigeration in the early hot summers the farmer’s wives had difficulty keeping butter made from grass-fed cows fresh until it could be brought to market. On the whole the women managed exceedingly well under trying conditions—it was before the day of screens on the homes—but there were some that didn’t know how, or just didn’t seem to care.

At that time I was clerking in Than Morris’ store, along with Curt Shuemaker, George and Chuck Cawood. We had already accumulated a full barrel of off-grade butter that would have to be sold for soap-grease, when Morris told us all that should a certain woman bring in butter again for us to reject it. It so happened that it fell to the lot of the “cub” clerk to wait on her. Morris and the three other clerks stood by, grinning. I carried her jar into the side room, and without uncovering it, brought it back and told the woman we could not buy it. She appealed to Than, saying, “Mr. Cawood here,” nodding toward me, “took my butter away and got it all dirty, and now says he won’t buy it.” Morris knew what to look for—and it was there for all to see. He said, “Look!” pointing to the uncovered jar, “ Cawood didn’t put those wigglers in your butter. Don’t bring us any more of that stuff.”

The woman insisted that “Mr. Cawood had dirtied it up”—and Morris paid in full, gross weight. And she was permitted to take the whole mess back home, along with her purchases. I was thankful that Morris, in dealing with her, also called me Cawood—minus the “Mister.”

Still calling me “Mr. Cawood,” this woman later told me she had rheumatism—that she had, unfortunately, spilled her cooling bucket in the water well, and that her man would no longer allow her to cool her butter in the customary way — suspended on a rope deep in the well. After she had passed on, the second Mrs. L. made good butter—so good in fact that the town customers called for it by name. But even this could not correct the damage done to my delicate stomach during that summer in the Morris store. I have never tasted raw butter since that time. And with me, after that sheep herding experience, mutton is also taboo. Old Morgan’s sheep were scabby.

Again, while clerking in the Morris store I was put to the test—and though this has nothing whatsoever to do with the free grass range, I am sure you will observe that it is neatly wrapped in fast green. A Miss Sumerville, a relative of the Zabel’s, visiting in Wetmore—I believe she was from Pennsylvania—asked for variegated yarn. I told her we didn’t have that kind, but I would show her what we had. I admit that I was not very bright on some matters — but at that, I wasn’t as dumb as one of the standbys that I could have named.

Morris said, “Show her what you have in that drawer over there,” indicating the drawer holding the variegated yarn. After I had made the sale, Morris complimented me for selling the little lady a lot of something she didn’t want. He said, “When you don’t have what they want, always try to sell them something else.” He henkie-henkie-henkied in a manner which passed as a derisive laugh. “Keep awake, young man,” he said, “and you’ll make a salesman in time — maybe as good as Cawood here,” indicating Chuck.

With George Cox and his two sons, Bill and young George, I helped build that Holland corral earlier mentioned — and a small bunk house. And it was here where I mixed it with the rattlesnake I had been admonished so often to keep a sharp eye out for. Note Note how well young America obeyed the injunction. I saw the rattlesnake coiled by the roadside as we were coming in after the day’s work, with ox-team, piloted by a Mr. Green who had brought the outfit up from Atchison to haul the lumber out from town. I jumped out of the wagon, and hit the snake with a rock. It flopped, then lay still. I thought it was dead but to make sure I prodded it with a stiff prairie weed—and learned pronto that the stick was a mite too short on one end. That rattler lashed out at me, overreaching by the fraction of an inch, with its neck or body falling across my wrist. My hands were scratched and blood-stained from handling the rough pine boards—fencing came in the rough in those days — and Mr. Green insisted that he saw the snake bite me “with my own eyes.” And to prove it, he spotted a snagged place on my hand where he was sure the snake’s fangs had struck.

Mr. Green crowded those normally slow plodding oxen, and we actually came to town by fits and spurts on the gallop. He wanted to buy whisky for me, and seemed awfully distressed when I refused it. He was so exercised over the matter that one easily could have believed that it was he who was in need of a generous slug of the stuff — and I’m not so sure that he didn’t get it. Anyway, I was ready to go out on time the next morning. Mr. Green was not. And you can bet your life I never again tried to poke a diamondback with a stick too short on one end.

Incidentally, I may say there were other close calls and near misses—not to overlook the one August day when a seven-button, (seven-year-old) rattlesnake actually made a ten-strike on my bare foot. And though always to me a bit hazy, I can now assure you that this is no dream. Just why I would stand still by the side of the hole into which I had poured water in the hope of drowning out a ground squirrel, and watch that snake slither up through the grass, coil and strike, before going down the hole, has always been something for me to ponder.

It was said in the old days that snakes would charm their prey—mesmerize a bird so that it could not fly away. Well, here for once was a “charmed” fledgling that did “fly” away—too late. The charm was broken the moment the snake struck, and though I was only six years old, my brother Charley said I let out a terrific yell, and cleared a wagon road in one jump. Even now I wonder does one ever get so frightened that both mind and body refuse to function?

And here is a solemn truth you will likely find hard to believe. For several years thereafter, come August and dogdays, my right leg would become spotted like that rattlesnake. In a previous article I told of this same rattlesnake encounter, and my Aunt Nancy Porter asked me why didn’t I mention the fact of those recurrent spots? I told her that I didn’t want to weaken the story with anything hard to swallow, however true it might be. Then she said, “Well-I, could tell them that it is true, that your mother—” her sister—”told me that it was the gospel truth.” And there were no better Baptists than that pair. Still, in this day of freedom of thought, you can doubt it if you wish — but you would be wrong.