The Life of a Cowboy: Complete 5 Book Collection. Andy Adams
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Andy Adams
The Life of a Cowboy: Complete 5 Book Collection
True Life Tales of Texas Cowboys and Adventure Novels
Published by
Books
- Advanced Digital Solutions & High-Quality eBook Formatting -
2017 OK Publishing
ISBN 978-80-272-2087-8
Table of Contents
The Log of a Cowboy: A Narrative of the Old Trail Days
Reed Anthony, Cowman: An Autobiography
The Wells Brothers: The Young Cattle Kings
The Log of a Cowboy: A Narrative of the Old Trail Days
CHAPTER VI A REMINISCENT NIGHT
CHAPTER VIII ON THE BRAZOS AND WICHITA
CHAPTER XIV SLAUGHTER'S BRIDGE
CHAPTER XVIII THE NORTH PLATTE
CHAPTER XIX FORTY ISLANDS FORD
CHAPTER XXII OUR LAST CAMP-FIRE
"Our cattle also shall go with us." — Exodus iv. 26.
CHAPTER I
UP THE TRAIL
Just why my father moved, at the close of the civil war, from Georgia to Texas, is to this good hour a mystery to me. While we did not exactly belong to the poor whites, we classed with them in poverty, being renters; but I am inclined to think my parents were intellectually superior to that common type of the South. Both were foreign born, my mother being Scotch and my father a north of Ireland man, — as I remember him, now, impulsive, hasty in action, and slow to confess a fault. It was his impulsiveness that led him to volunteer and serve four years in the Confederate army, — trying years to my mother, with a brood of seven children to feed, garb, and house. The war brought me my initiation as a cowboy, of which I have now, after the long lapse of years, the greater portion of which were spent with cattle, a distinct recollection. Sherman's army, in its march to the sea, passed through our county, devastating that section for miles in its passing.
Foraging parties scoured the country on either side of its path. My mother had warning in time and set her house in order. Our work stock consisted of two yoke of oxen, while our cattle numbered three cows, and for saving them from the foragers credit must be given to my mother's generalship. There was a wild canebrake, in which the cattle fed, several hundred acres in extent, about a mile from our little farm, and it was necessary to bell them in order to locate them when wanted. But the cows were in the habit of coming up to be milked, and a soldier can hear a bell as well as any one. I was a lad of eight at the time, and while my two older brothers worked our few fields, I was sent into the canebrake to herd the cattle. We had removed the bells from the oxen and cows, but one ox was belled after darkness each evening, to be unbelled again at daybreak. I always carried the bell with me, stuffed with grass, in order to have