I 
Nov. II, ipQS.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
887 
inot be over thirty miles away yet; the wagons had to 
(travel slowly on account of the ox teams. 
I I went ont at a gallop, i thought I had a rather large 
■ contract on hand to try and arrest twenty or niofe men 
■ all by myself; but I could make a bluff at it anyhow. 
'These frontier citizens ate never in a hurry about dis- 
obeying any order we give them, A soldier could arrest 
i a party of them after they had run a sheriff and his posse 
clear out of the county. 
! At the end of about twenty-eight miles I saw the train 
jjust ahead of me. They had camped on Dead Man’s 
I Creek last night and were just now pulling out — a rather 
llate start; it was lo o’clock now. As I rode past each 
wagon I told its driver to pull out and stop ; then kept on 
until I came to the head of the train. The wagon in ad- 
vance was an ox team — three yoke of them — driven by a 
colored boy. 
“Pull to the right, Sam, and stop,” I told him. 
“Yes, sah.” 
Just ahead of this wagon and leading the procession 
was an old-fashioned country carryall with a fine span of 
iron-gray horses. The driver was a woman, thirty-five 
years old, as she afterward told me when she offered her- 
self and a 400-acre farm to me. She was pulling away 
at a corncob pipe. Lifting my hat to her I said : 
“Madam, I have your train under arrest. Drive to the 
right of the road and stop, please.” 
“What fur?” 
I told her what “fur.” ^ 
“I hain’t got ary one of your blame guns. I don’t 
need ’em. I got plenty guns of my own.” 
“I am glad to hear it; but you must stop here. I can’t 
let you go on,” 
She stuck her head past the side of her carryall and 
•yelled : “Alf, git that thar team back in the road ! You 
Tear me? An’ come on.” 
Alf was the negro ox driver. 
■“Keep your team where it is, Alf,” I told him. “I am 
in command here now. You obey me.” 
“Yes, sah, I does.” 
i “That thar team is mine, an’ I want it. I am going 
' right on.” 
I “You can’t. Madam. There may be Indians not ten 
i miles away. There often are.” 
, “I don’t keer fur no Indians. I can help myself. I got 
j, a gun.” And she reached behind her and hauled out a 
Winchester rifle. 
“Can you use that?” I asked. 
“You find me a deer an’ see if I can’t use it.” 
I Had this been a man I should have helped him over on 
1 the grass long since, but you can’t drive a woman. 
• “Madam,” I told her, “my orders were to stop every 
one, but I will make an exception in your case. Drive 
■ on.” 
!' “I reckon I had better stop,” she said, after studying 
' the question a moment. 
“Yes, I think so; but I won’t try to stop a lady. You 
; rcan go on if you want to do so.” 
I knew she would not go, else I should not have given 
iher permission to go. She drove off on the grass and 
t -jumping down out of her carryall yelled: “Alf, git thern 
; -.thar oxen out now an’ let ’em git a bite. You hear me?” 
Alf heard her. So did every one else within half a mile. 
: She began to unharness her team, and while she got the 
I iharmess off one horse I took it off the other, then put 
I (drag- ropes on both of them. She was going to let them 
! -jrun. Next I hung the harness up on the front wheels, 
j ."She was watching me and now said: “You seem to know 
( Ihow to do things.” 
“We have to know how to do many things in our 
Ibitsiness, Maclam. We never know when we may be 
called on to do them.” 
■“Are you a sargint?” 
‘“That is what they call me.” 
I was only a corporal, but the civilians here did not 
kno-w the difference, and called us all sergeants. I never 
took the trouble to explain the difference, either; ! would 
almost as soon be called a sergeant. I was waiting pa- 
tiently until the Captain would call me one — if he did 
not break me before that. He did not, but gave me the 
third stripe when it came my turn to get it. 
As soon as the men had got their teams on the grass 
they had gathered in a knot, and were now holding a 
council. A half-grown boy came to me and throwing up 
his hand to his hat, as he had seen us salute our officers, 
said : “Mister, my father wants to see you.” Returning 
his salute I said: “I’ll see him now,” and was about to 
start when the woman was heard from again. 
“See here. Bill,” addressing the boy, “you call that man 
‘sargint’ after this. Don’t forgit it now. He ain’t none 
.of your ‘misters,’ he is a ‘sargint.’ ” 
I walked over to the group of men and said : “I ought 
:to have told you sooner, gentlemen, why I stopped you 
i'here, but the lady detained me. _ I have been ordered to 
•place you under arrest for having Government arms in 
'your possession. I will have to hold you here until the 
icaptain comes up. You had better camp. He may not 
ibe here for hours yet. You can’t go on to-day; the next 
■water is too far ahead.” 
“I have all'those guns. Sergeant,” one of the men said. 
‘“Those other men know nothing about them.^^ I’ll give 
them up now ; you can let these other men go.” 
‘T am sorry, but I can’t. I have my orders and must 
obey them. You will all have to stop here. The Captain, 
when he comes, may let you go. I can’t.” 
“Where have you those guns?” I asked. He took me 
to a wagon, and. taking out the tail gate, pointed to them. 
They lay on the bottom of the wagon under the whole 
load’. The rest of the men had followed us. 
“Gentlemen,” I told them, “this is no way to keep your 
arms. You should have them where you can get them 
at a moment’s notice. There are Indians in this country. 
We should know it, I think; we are often called on to 
drive them out of it. 
“You have your families here. Keep your arms where 
you can get them in a hurry. You may need them in a 
hurry.” 
“We have some Winchesters where we can get them, 
the one-armed captain tolcl me. _ ^ 
“Can you park your train, captain?” 
■“Yes; I have showed them how to do it.” 
“If I w'ere you I would always from this out camp in 
a park, and go in to park at a gallop every evening. Then 
it will come easier if you have to do it in a hurry some 
day.” 
“I’ll do it,” he said. “That is a grand idea.” 
The man had his guns out now, all laid side by side (dii 
the grass. “I did not steal these guns. Sergeant; I paid 
for them.” 
“Whom did you buy them from?” . 
“The men called him Sergeant Grahanl.” 
I gave, a low whistle. I was one point nearer a sergeant 
than I was five minutes ago ; Graham was a sergeant in 
my troop; he would be a general prisoner now, but I 
would not succeed him ; there were several ahead of me 
yet. 
“Sergeant Graham told me that he had bought the 
gun.s, but for me not to let them be seen until after we 
had got past Fort Concho. He said he dare not sell them 
to a citizen, and the soldiers might take them from me.” 
“No; the guns belong to the quartermaster. He had no 
right to sell them to anyone.” 
Graham had been acting post quartermaster-sergeant. 
He is a fool, I thought, his time would expire in a month 
or two now and instead of getting an honorable (lischarge 
he will now get about three years in the penitentiary, and 
all for $50 ; he had sold ten guns at $5 apiece. 
In about two hours the Captain came up. He was 
a brevet captain; we always addressed him as Captain. 
I told him that I had the guns, and that these men had 
given me no trouble. I wanted to see them released. 
The Captain got the man’s story, then released all 
hands; but they could not go on to-day, it was a long 
drive for them to good water from here. They had 
taken my advice and were in camp now half a mile 
away from last night’s camp. We went into camp at 
the creek, and as soon as our horses were staked out, I 
asked to be let go hunting. The Captain told rne to 
go and take my horse if I wanted him. I had ridden 
him hard to-day, and wanted him to rest, so I went off 
on foot. 
I kept out on the prairie for two miles, then struck 
off toward the creek. I wanted an antelope, but could 
not find even a rabbit. When I had got to the creek 
I wanted water, so I got under a tree to lie down and 
drink out of the creek; but before doing so, took a 
look up into the tree. It pays to do it. I have looked 
up in a tree I had meant to lie down under and found 
a snake in it. He was harmless, and had he kept down 
here where he belonged I would not have hurt him; 
but he was up there after young birds, and I brought 
him down. I would only shoot a black snake on the 
ground when I found him prowling in among briars 
and weeds, hunting for Miss Bob White’s eggs or 
young; then I let him have a dose of bird shot. 
This tree had no snake in it, but a large limb ran 
out straight from the trunk partly over the water, and 
lying along it up there looking down at me was a 
wildcat, Felis catus is the only college name I know for 
him; he may have another; the Fdis seems to be Latin 
all right, but the Catus bears the ear-marks of hog Latin; 
however, it may be good Latin also. My college 
education I got in a public school, and it did not em- 
brace Latin. He has several common names. Down 
here, where I found him now he is the catamount. 
When he gets to- the Rio Grande or across it he is the 
Mexican lion. I have shot him under all three of his 
names, and always found him to be the same old wild- 
cat. If there was any difference in him, I was not 
naturalist enough to discover it. 
But I did not want him on my back under any of his 
names, and got out from under that tree. 
Going about thirty paces down the creek below the 
tree I aimed at where I thought the cat was — I could 
not see him now — and fired three shots. No cat came 
down, but my balls were going where I aimed for; the 
leaves they cut told me so. I fired the next shot nearer 
the creek, and was just springing another load in when 
the cat came down with a thud. He landed on the 
bank half in and half out of the water, then drew him- 
self out and lay there. I went to him and sent several 
pistol balls into him, then kicked him into the creek 
and left him there. 
Just after stables to-night the boy who drove my 
“lady friend’s” team came down and said that Miss 
wanted me to come up to supper. Every woman 
is a “Miss” with these southern darkies; so I took this 
opportunity to question him and find out if this one 
was a widow. I did not want to have much to do with 
widows; they know too- much. 
No, the boy said, she had never been marrieci. Her 
father had died a few years ago, leaving her a big farm 
and a lot of money in the bank, “She is awful rich, I 
tell you,” the boy said, “she has the big house where 
she lives and a lot of small ones that colored people 
live in. They work her farm.” She was only coming 
out here to see the country. She meant to go back 
again. 
“All right, Alf,” I told him. “You need not tell 
Miss I asked about her.” And I handed Alf a 
half dollar. 
She had a good supper for me. If I had sent up my 
order this was what I would want, and I told her so. 
She had baked fresh corn bread, fried bacon and a beef- 
steak, and boiled sweet potatoes and good coffee. She 
could cook as well as shoot, I thought. 
After supper she began to cross-question me. 
“How old are you. Sergeant?” 
“Thirty-two years old now.” - 
“Why, I thought you might be about twenty-six, I 
am thirty-five. I don’t look old, do I?” 
What church did I belong to? “None,” I told her. 
“I call myself a Methodist, I was raised one.” 
She was a Baptist; but liked the Methodists; there 
were lots of them where she lived. 
Did I like critters? Critters are horses in English. 
“Yes, I like critters and dogs. That is why I am 
in a critter company.” 
What kind of dogs did I like? “Oh! any kind; I like 
hounds and setters and pointers best. I can use them.” 
She had houn’s, rabbit houn’s and greyhoun’s, and 
she could get me sitters and pinters; there were lots 
of them out there. 
“I’ll get you and that 4(X)-acre farm next,” I thought. 
She told me all about her farm now and' about the 
country she lived in. I had been pretty -well over it 
and knew it. Next we exhausted Fort Smith. It was 
her ideal of a city; she had never seen a larger one. 
I had been in it and knew how lar^e it was. 
She kept ttie talking until 9 o’clock, then made rne 
promise to come to breakfast next morning. I did 
and got a good one. Then bade her good-bye and the 
train got under way, while we pulled out for hortie. 
I heard months after this that the train had been 
jumped by Indians west of the Pecos River and that 
hall of the party were killed. I think that had I been 
there and had plenty of arms for these men and large 
boys, about forty in all, and had been given a fe-w 
minutes to park that train, or I could have parked it 
under fire if I had to do it, then we would have turned 
in and made any party of Indians that would be likely 
to attack a train in New Mexico “look like thirty cents,” 
in about thirty minutes. 
When we got home Graham had his stripes cut off 
and was put in the guard house to be tried by a geneval 
court-martial. There was no general court in session 
there then, it had to be appointed by the department 
commander, and while they were waiting on him 
Graham’s time expired and he was given a bob-tail, 
a discharge with no character on it; the Captain signs 
this with a penknife instead of a pen, and cuts the 
character off. It is locally and generally known as a 
bob-tail; if it has ever been catalogued and given a 
scientific name, I do not know it. I never had one 
given me. Mine were all good. 
I had a lot of legal opinions always on hand to give 
to any one who wanted them. I never charged any- 
thing for them. What I charged was probably what 
most of them were worth, but the advice I gave Graham 
would probably be pronounced good law. He sent 
for me to advise him what he should do. 
“When they call on you to plead, refuse to be tried 
by their court, and demand a civil trial. You are a 
citizen now. They should either have tried you before 
your time expired or else not have given you that 
discharge until they had tried you. Thell them that 
you insist on your rights as a citizen and this State is 
not under martial law. Then if they still_ persist in 
trying you, all this will go before the reviewing author- 
ity and he will no doubt disapprove the finding, then 
let you go. They may give you a civil trial, but I hardly 
think so. 
“That man you sold the guns to is half way to 
California now (I did not know at that time that the 
Indians had got him), and he can’t ^ got as a witness. 
What he told us won’t go in a civil court. It will in 
the military court though. When you are being tried 
before a civil court, if I were to start to tell what that 
man told me your lawyer would shut me up very 
quick. He won’t have to do it. I know as well as he 
does that what some one else told me is not evidence.” 
When he was called for trial the officers scared him 
into taking the military trial, telling him that a civil 
court would give him five years. So it might if he 
were convicted, but he would not be._ The officers 
knew that they had no evidence a civil court would 
take and most likely had he insisted on being tried by a 
civil court, they would not have tried him at _ all. He 
was sentenced to two years in the penitentiary; but 
escaped from the guard house after night. The man 
he took with him was on guard over the stables; they 
broke in and took two of the fastest horses we had 
then. I had a middling fast one in there, but they left him. 
Graham knew the country, and keeping away from 
the road and taking care not to make any trail when 
leaving the post. He started for the lower country; 
but took a round about way to reach it. 
When I passed him he had been out two days and 
had only come near the road now because he wanted 
to pass through Chadbourne and get something to eat. 
He got to the road just in time to see us coming; 
and his companion proposed that they pass off as 
Indians. Graham knew that I was in this stage line, 
and seeing a corporal on the wagon, wanted to stay on 
the road and speak to me; but his companion was 
afraid I would try to arrest them or give them away. 
The man who deserted with him was given five years, 
he had deserted his guard. Graham got off with the 
two he had been given for stealing the guns. 
Cabia BlA-NCO. 
A Vision of October Days. 
Ossining, N,-Y . — Editor Forest and Stream: I send you a little 
poem which I clipped from the Star of Hope, a paper published 
bi-monthly in Sing Sing prison and made up of articles written 
by prisoners in Auburn, Clinton, Naponock and Sing Sing < 
prisons. It is a pretty little thing, and worth copying. 
C. G. Blandford. 
OCTOBER DAYS. 
Sing Sing, 52,430. 
October days! October days! 
A turquoise sky o’er hills ablaze. 
Dun-colored grass in the marshes, where 
The red-heads wheel in the frosty air. 
Down in thq, swamp in the heart of the woods 
Sumac bushes raise scarlet hoods; 
And my weary eyes, with restful gaze, 
Find relief on October days. 
October days! October days! 
Over the river a pearly haze. 
In upland meadows the golden-rod 
Nods to the dried-up milkweed pod. 
Dandelion- and thistle-down blows 
Over the country-side. 'Where? Who knows? 
The south wind whispers, “It pays! It pays! 
To be alive on October days!” 
October days! October days! 
Summer heat gone I may not laze. 
From the Stubblefield, in the bright sunlight. 
The quail are calling, “Bob White! Bob White!” 
The hoar-frost frescoes in bold relief 
On a background blue, each twig, each leaf. 
The paths though the fields are a silv’ry maze 
In the early morn of October days. 
October days! October days! 
Each deserving of infinite praise. 
The air I breathe is strong, like wine, 
And I am a drunkard — I, and mine. 
The dying year from its garnered store 
Gives a little to some — to others more. 
Though the gods are many, and strange their ways, 
I render them thanks fot October days. 
