The Log of a Cowboy eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 355 pages of information about The Log of a Cowboy.

There was never very much love lost between government soldiers and our tribe, so we swept past Camp Supply in contempt a few days later, and crossed the North Fork of the Canadian to camp for the night.  Flood and McCann went into the post, as our supply of flour and navy beans was running rather low, and our foreman had hopes that he might be able to get enough of these staples from the sutler to last until we reached Dodge.  He also hoped to receive some word from Lovell.

The rest of us had no lack of occupation, as a result of a chance find of mine that morning.  Honeyman had stood my guard the night before, and in return, I had got up when he was called to help rustle the horses.  We had every horse under hand before the sun peeped over the eastern horizon, and when returning to camp with the remuda, as I rode through a bunch of sumach bush, I found a wild turkey’s nest with sixteen fresh eggs in it.  Honeyman rode up, when I dismounted, and putting them in my hat, handed them up to Billy until I could mount, for they were beauties and as precious to us as gold.  There was an egg for each man in the outfit and one over, and McCann threw a heap of swagger into the inquiry, “Gentlemen, how will you have your eggs this morning?” just as though it was an everyday affair.  They were issued to us fried, and I naturally felt that the odd egg, by rights, ought to fall to me, but the opposing majority was formidable,—­fourteen to one,—­so I yielded.  A number of ways were suggested to allot the odd egg, but the gambling fever in us being rabid, raffling or playing cards for it seemed to be the proper caper.  Raffling had few advocates.

“It reflects on any man’s raising,” said Quince Forrest, contemptuously, “to suggest the idea of raffling, when we’ve got cards and all night to play for that egg.  The very idea of raffling for it!  I’d like to see myself pulling straws or drawing numbers from a hat, like some giggling girl at a church fair.  Poker is a science; the highest court in Texas has said so, and I want some little show for my interest in that speckled egg.  What have I spent twenty years learning the game for, will some of you tell me?  Why, it lets me out if you raffle it.”  The argument remained unanswered, and the play for it gave interest to that night.

As soon as supper was over and the first guard had taken the herd, the poker game opened, each man being given ten beans for chips.  We had only one deck of cards, so one game was all that could be run at a time, but there were six players, and when one was frozen out another sat in and took his place.  As wood was plentiful, we had a good fire, and this with the aid of the cook’s lantern gave an abundance of light.  We unrolled a bed to serve as a table, sat down on it Indian fashion, and as fast as one seat was vacated there was a man ready to fill it, for we were impatient for our turns in the game.  The talk turned on an accident which had happened that afternoon.  While we were crossing the North Fork of the Canadian, Bob Blades attempted to ride out of the river below the crossing, when his horse bogged down.  He instantly dismounted, and his horse after floundering around scrambled out and up the bank, but with a broken leg.  Our foreman had ridden up and ordered the horse unsaddled and shot, to put him out of his suffering.

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The Log of a Cowboy from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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