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Ogallala, Nebraska, 1878.
Initially, the cattle trails ran
north to railheads in Kansas, but, as the eastern plains were taken over by farmers and
barbed wire and the scourge of Texas fever, the trails moved westward. The end of the trail towns such as Caldwell, Kansas, Hunnewell, Kansas, Ogallala, Nebraska, and
Billings, Montana, and their saloons and dance halls were a tad rough. One resident of Caldwell complained of the Red Light Saloon:
The scenes there presented reminded me of the early times in Cheyenne, when
murder ran riot and the pistol was the only argument.
Outside of Caldwell was a
hill where damsels of the evening would maintain a lookout for the trail herds coming toward town. Thus with warning,
the saloons and girls could get ready for the expected rush of business. Caldwell in its
first three years went through nine town marshals, several having met their Maker near
the saloon. On June 22, 1882, the town's tenth marshal was
killed in the Red Light Saloon. With the killing of Marshal George S. Brown, Caldwell had enough of the saloon. The proprietor and
proprietress of the saloon, George and Maggie Wood, found it expedient to leave town.
As the town residents were bidding the Woods farewell, the saloon mysteriously caught fire and burned down.
Dance Hall scene, Billings, Montana, approx. 1887.
Hunnewell, with one hotel, two stores, a barbershop, eight or nine saloons and a couple of dance halls also
provided entertainment. The cowboys would ride their horses into the saloons. Sometimes they would take the
barrels of sugar from the stores to feed their horses. When the cowboys were in town, lights on the
trains would be extinquished lest they be used for target practice. The most famous of the gunfights in
Hunnewell was on October 5, 1884, when one cowboy and a deputy sheriff were killed in Hanley's Saloon. No one was
charged.
The Texas Trail was
the last of the great trails, with the last drives in the 1890's. The Texas Trail, originally blazed by John Lytle in 1874, was not a
clearly defined road or path, in the sense, say, of I-25. Sometimes it would
be over twenty miles wide, running from Red River northward, with various branches, all
ultimately leading to Ogallala, in the words of Andy Adams, the
"Gomorrah" of the cattle trails. Indeed, Ogallala was so bad that
at least one cattle company which on drives would allow its boys the freedom of
Dodge City, declared it off limits, thus giving the town the reputation of being
"too tough for Texans." Indeed, the owner of one hotel told an eastern
visitor that there was only one woman in town, the hotel owner's wife, all the others
were "ladies." The "ladies" would usually be brought in from Omaha for the "season."
Texas Trail, Ogallala to Fort Benton
Texas Trail, Doan's Crossing to Ogallala; Goodnight-Loving Trail, New Mexico to Cheyenne, 1882
Texas Trail, Brownsville to Doan's Crossing; Goodnight-Loving Trail
Ft. Worth to the Cimmeron, 1882
Wyoming Stockgrower, Edgar Beecher Bronson, trailed 1500 cattle to
Ogallala in 1882 and in his 1908 Reminiscenses of a Ranchman described the town at the height of the
season:
A wonderful sight was the Platte Valley about
Ogallala in those days, for it was the northern
terminus of the great Texas trail of the late '
70s and early '80s, where trail-drivers brought
their herds to sell and northern ranchmen came to
bargain.
That day, far as the eye could see up, down, and
across the broad, level valley were cattle by the thousand—
thirty or forty thousand at least—a dozen or
more separate outfits, grazing in loose, open order
so near each other that, at a distance, the valley
appeared carpeted with a vast Persian rug of intricate
design and infinite variety of colours.
Approached nearer, where individual riders and
cattle began to take form, it was a topsy-turvy
scene I looked down upon.
Wyoming Trail Herd, 1880's. Photo by C. D. Kirkland
The town itself consisted of
The one store and the score of saloons, dance halls, and gambling joints that lined up south of
the railway track and formed the only street Ogallala could boast, were packed with wild and woolly,
long-haired and bearded, rent and dusty, lusting and
thirsty, red-sashed brush-splitters in from the trail
outfits for a frolic.
And every now and then a chorus of wild, shrill
yells and a fusillade of shots rent the air that would
make a tenderfoot think a battle-royal was on.
But there was nothing serious doing, then; it was
only cowboy frolic.
Ogallala, Nebraska, undated
One of the principle saloons was Jim Tucker's Cowboy's Rest. Inside
was
a rude pine " bar" on
the right invited the thirsty; on the left, noisy "
tin horns," whirring wheels, clicking faro " cases,"
and rattling chips lured the gamblers; while away
to the rear of the room stretched a hundred feet
or more of dance-hall, on each of whose rough
benches sat enthroned a temptress—hard of eye,
deep-lined of face, decked with cheap gauds, sad
wrecks of the sea of vice here lurching and tossing
for a time.
* * * *
The room was packed: a solid line of men and
women before the bar, every table the centre of a
crowding group of players, the dance-hall floor and
benches jam-full of a roystering, noisy throng.
At the moment all were happy and peace reigned.
But there was one obvious source of discord—
there were " not enough gals to go round"; not
enough, indeed, if those present had been multiplied
by ten, a situation certain to stir jealousies and
strife among a lot of wild nomads for whom this
was the first chance in four months to gaze into
a woman's eyes.
And while Bronson was standing in the corner having just been introduced to
a Miss De Puyster, Bill Thompson, brother of the infamous shootist Ben Thompson, popped in
the door and did a quick shot at proprietor, Jim Tucker. Tucker fell.
Thinking Tucker dead, Thompson turned to leave. But Tucker was not dead. Only three of his fingers
had been shot off. Tucker coming to, grabbed a shotgun, followed Thompson out the door, and
levelled the gun across the stump
of his maimed left hand, and emptied into Bill's
back, at about six paces, a trifle more No. 4 duck-
shot than his system could assimilate.
The festivities were only briefly interrupted. Bronson continued:
erhaps altogether ten minutes were
wasted on this incident and the time taken to tourniquet and
tie up Jim's wound and to pack Bill inside and
stow him in a corner behind the faro lookout's chair,
and then Jim's understudy called, " Pardners fo' th'
next dance! " the fiddlers bravely tackled but soon
got hopelessly beyond their depth in "The Blue
Danube," and dancing and frolic were resumed, with "Miss De Puyster"
still the belle of the ball.
Nebraska cattleman, John Bratt, whose home ranch was near North Platte, also had remembrances of Tucker's
saloon. He recalled that cowboys would ride into the establishment and jump their horses on to the pool and billiard tables. Some,
who were crack shots would shoot the glass out of a man's hand while it was up to his mounth or see how close they could shoot off a
cigar in a man's mouth without grazing his nose with a bullet. See Bratt, John:
Trails of Yesterday, The University Publishing Company, Lincoln, 1921.
One night, the cowboys got into a fight in the saloon. After completing the wrecking of the saloon, they
piled out into the darkness of the street. The only light was the faint glow from one of the windows of
the Leach House hotel. The light was cast by a solitary oil lamp sitting on
a wash stand. About 15 shots came through the window, smashing the oil lamp. Within the room at the time
were some of the leading cattle barons including one of the Bosler Brothers all scrambling to exit the
chamber. Bratt marveled that no one was wounded, killed, or why the hotel did not burn down.
A Crack Shot in Tucker's Saloon.
From Ogallala the trails would split off. One followed the Platte to Fort Laramie and westwardly
to provide cattle for the Fort Washakie and Crow agencies in Wyoming. Another
crossed the Niabrara River and ultimatly connected to the Cheyenne River. From there it
headed northward to Powder River and up to Miles City.
An N Bar herd crossing Powder River, 1886, photo by
Laton Alton Huffman.
The N Bar was a brand owned by E. S. "Zeke" and Henry H. J. Newman's Niobrara
Land and Cattle Company. The company started in Texas and in 1878 trailed 10-15,000 head
to Nebraska. In 1882, the Company trailed 12,000 head to Powder River. The
Company failed as a result of the winter of 1886-1887.
Powder River has been described as being "a mile wide and an inch deep." Yet because of the
war cry of cowboys, picked up by American troops, "Powder River, Let 'er Buck," the river has a fame
well beyond its size. According to Lander cattleman, Edward J. Farlow (1861-1951), author of
Powder River, Let 'er Buck (Annals of Wyoming, Vol 11, No. 1, 1939) and Wind River Adventures: My Life in Frontier Wyoming,
the expression originated with a cattle drive along Powder River to Casper:
Some hands trailing cows to the railroad at Casper in the autumn of 1893 bedded down near the
headwaters of Powder river, near the present Hiland, Wyoming, one night. They
talked about crossing Powder River repeatedly the next morning, and spoke of
getting their swimming horses. The next morning one cowboy, Missouri Bill
Shultz, changed horses to get a good swimmer. Making thir various
crossings, they discovered that in the fall at that place, Powder River was just deep enought to wet a
horse's hoof, and had barely enough energy to trickle from one hole to another.
When they got to Casper, Missouri Bill toasted the hands like this: "Boys, come and
have a drink on me. I've crossed Powder River" They had the drinks, then a few more
and were getting pretty sociable. When Missouri Bill again ordered he said to the
boys, "Have another drink on me, I've swum Powder River," this time with a
distinct emphasis on the words Powder River. "Yes, sir, by God, Powder
River," with a little stronger emphasis. when the drinks were all set up he said, "Well,
here's to Powder River, let 'er Buck!"
Soon he grew louder and was heard to say, "Powder River is coming upeeyeeep! --
Yes sir, Powder River is rising," and soon after with a yip and a yell, he pulls out
his old six-gun and throwed a few shots through the ceiling and yelled, "Powder
River is up, come an' have 'nother drink." Bang! Bang! "Yeow, I'm a wolf and it's
my night to howl. Powder River is out of 'er banks. I'm wild and woolly and full
o' fleas and never been curried below the knees!"
Bill was loaded for bear, and that is the first time I ever heard the
slogan, and from there it went around the world.
Fording Powder River.
According to Fred L. Beger, writing in The Stars and Stripes, January 31, 1919, the war cry of cowboys was picked
up by American troops during World War I from the Montana National Guard.
The war cry has been used by the University of Wyoming since at least the 1930's when the expression was used
in Lorna Kooi Simpson's Come On, Wyoming:
Come On, Wyoming
Come on, Wyoming, you've got to fight today.
For we want a victory.
Come on, Wyoming, you've got to win today,
for the university.
Come on, Wyoming, we all depend on you;
We are loyal through and through
Powder river, let're buck, let'er buck, Wyoming!!
[Writer's note: The name Powder River is used without the definite article "the." Indeed,
noted Colorado historian Hebert O. Brayer has been critized for referring to
the waterway as "the Powder River."]
Powder River, near Leiter, Sheridan County, Wyoming
Nevertheless, like a caravan, the herd would proceed at a rate of about ten miles a day from Texas northward to Nebraska,
Wyoming, and Montana. And as it proceeded further to the north, the more likely it was
to run into the thunderstorms of the great plains and the possibilities of a stampede.
Stampede, portion of engraving by E. Boyd Smith.
Next page: Stampedes.
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