CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DON'T FENCE ME IN
Our Joe Browning, usually the good-natured and cheerful one, was finding plenty to grumble about these days. First of all, he took the new baby and me on a trip to Fort Worth, and there we saw our fist passenger train. I was so excited I got as close as I could and examined it all over, but Joe was plain disgusted. It was just another means of bringing in more settlers, and honestly, as he put it, it was getting so you couldn't have elbow room any more.
Then from 1881 to 1884 our Texas had a private war of its own, called the Fence Cutter's War, and don't take it that it was a polite little tussle. New settlers and the large cow outfits finding it a strain to live side by side in a peaceable manner. There were a few large cattle companies that had weathered the Panic. Now, they were losing their patience when new people crowded into their rangeland.
These squatters often found a good spring of water, acquired a branding iron, and in a little while, collected a good heard of mavericks. Now, as you no doubt know, mavericks, in any cow country signifies that calves straying for their mothers can no longer be identified as belonging to this or that cow. In other words, they were orphans. One Jim Maverick put his brand on a group of lost calves and started a questionable tradition which bears his name today. I've heard followers of Mr. Maverick excuse themselves in this manner. "This is a maverick; he needs a brand on him, and nobody can say I stole him. Nobody can prove which cow is his mother. I've got as much right to him as anybody." The trouble was that men couldn't stop there; they drove calves far away from the mother cows, and after a while it wasn't hard to believe they really were mavericks.
The squatters, following the cowboy's lead, acquired calves, but there was no place to graze them, for the cattle companies, in defense, promptly fenced in their large ranges, and before they knew it, the squatters were hemmed in from all sides. Naturally, folks had the right to get in or out of their land, regardless of how small it was. That's how it came about that little men began cutting the big men's fences. In not time at all, the feud was on, and bitter enemies loaded their guns, resulting in a great number of deaths. So great was this conflict that the Governor of Texas called a special session and passed a ruling that the cattlemen had to leave public roads open and were ordered to place gates in their fences every three miles.
My Joe was not a squatter, nor was he any longer a cattle king, but he hated wire fences like wild animals hate a cage. I began to notice that he was getting very interested in some talk he had heard from this one and that one, about some old neighbors of ours from Motley County. It seemed that they had moved on over to New Mexico and were doing right well.
On our way home we stopped at Albany and went in to visit Mr. Guy Manning, one of Joe's good friends. Guy was a storekeeper who enjoyed regular customers and was as good as a newspaper if you wanted to find out all the happenings.
He talked a lot about caravans of people who had just recently come by on their way to New Mexico.
"I'm thinking some of going there myself," said Joe.
"You don't say so, Joe' I'm real sorry to hear this. You're getting such a good start again. Seems a pity to move." Mr Manning looked very concerned and looked over at me to see how I stood in the matter.
I just laughed and said, "It's wire fences botherin’ Joe, Mr. Manning. I'd be afraid to stretch a clothes line if we get to a new country." I still wasn't taking Joe seriously.
Mr. Manning then invited me over to his home so I could see his wife's new piano. Mrs. Manning played it very well, but secretly I thought it sounded a little tinny-- not nearly as sweet as an organ. While I was there, I watched Mrs. Manning use a telephone! Gracious! What would they have next? There were certainly many changes by 1883.
When I got ready to get in the wagon to head for home, Joe said sweetly, "why don't we backtrack a little and go onto Weatherford. Won't be much out of our way."
"Joe Alansing Browning, you aren't fooling me a minute! You want to go tell your Ma and Grandpa Stegall and Jim and Bud goodbye. I know the signs. Why don't you just say plain out that we're leaving for New Mexico?"
Joe gave the happiest laugh, then said gleefully, "I'm sure glad that you said ‘we' are going!" With that, Joe acted like he'd been let out of prison.
He sang and joked all the way to Weatherford and had such a good time with his folks. I didn't begrudge him that, but I was doing some tall thinking when I had a minute to myself. There were several things bothering me.
First of all, there was Pa to consider; he was past eighty, and I knew he had done all the traveling he was going to do. Then there were Diame and Della. I felt sick when I thought about going off and leaving them. Maybe I could talk Joe into persuading the McBride and McCommis families to come with us. There was one more worry, and it was making me a bit of a coward. This inflammatory rheumatism, as the doctor called it (it's called arthritis now) hounded me still. About once a month I took that white-powdered medicine, and that kept the pain down.
The thought tormenting me now was that I might run out of that white powder, and the doctors might be thousands of miles from us in this new country.
I decided to bring up my problems to Joe on our way home. When I talked about Pa, he agreed that my father was too old to travel any more, but he reminded me that Pres was right on hand to look after Pa and Sarah.
A little later I asked cautious-like, "You think the girls husbands might be interested in New Mexico country?"
Joe looked like the cat with the canary in his mouth, "Oh, their the ones been eggin' me on." My, was that ever a relief!
When I asked if he thought there would be doctors around, he just didn't know about that, but my Joe, ever the optimist, said, "You know, Angie, you just might be free of this rheumatism when we hit the new country. They say climate can make a heap o' difference. Anyway, you be sure to take along a good supply of that rheumatism medicine."
We hurried home just as the leaves were beginning to turn yellow and red as the fall winds blew. Joe and I knew we must get on our way before winter was upon us. Joe thought that if we all pitched in it wouldn't take more than a week to get packed up.
I sent word for Pa and Sarah to come spend that last week with us and with all the excitement and confusion, Sarah and I had many good talks while Pa sat and listened to us. Seems strange to me, now, that we didn't say a dozen words to each other, but I never felt any closer to my Pa.
Joe planned to head the caravan to New Mexico with an ox wagon. Jim and Diame McBride would follow next, also in an ox wagon, but Della and Wayne McCommis would bring up the read with a wagon drawn by horses.
Our big boys, Bob and Jack, now fifteen and eleven, were to drive one hundred and sixty head of the JAB cattle into new territory. They were also privileged to drive thirty head each of W. Cross and J Circle Cross cattle in that herd. They were the proud ones, for not many young men at their age could boast of such a good start in the cow business.
That last morning when we had everything packed and the children were in our wagon, I went back to tell Pa goodbye. That was heartbreaking for me, for this was the only time I ever saw my Pa with tears in his eyes. How very old he was getting! He and Sarah stood at the gate and waved the children out of sight. Not me! I looked straight ahead and let the tears come. When I dried my eyes, Joe called to me as he walked beside the oxen, "Mrs. JAB, do you know you're on your way to New Mexico?"
[New Mexico was then a territory. Congress admitted New Mexico as the 47th state in the Union on January 6, 1912.------Then there is the country of Mexico that does not belong to the United states but is a country of its own. People tend to confuse these two.] |
