In one of these camps were Fred Singer, who now lives in Dodge City, and two Englishmen, Jim and Bob Gator, both of whom I had met at Hays City, Kansas, in 1870, when they had just arrived from England, and were still wearing knee breeches and buckles. Their togs attracted a great deal of attention. The Gators became close friends of mine in later years. Bob went to Oregon, and Jim settled on Palo Duro, in Hansford county, where he now runs a cow ranch close to where he was camped at the time of which I write. Bob Cator was the first postmaster in Hansford County, and when the latter was organized he was elected county judge, holding the office a number of years. Jim and Bob Cator named Dixon Creek, in Hutchinson County, in remembrance of the fact that I built a dugout and was the first man to camp on this creek in 1874. After I went away, they occupied the dugout. This creek still bears my name.
James H. Cator, Zulu, Texas,
Panhandle Pioneer.
After the Cators had settled on Palo Duro, two brothers, a sister and Jim Cator's sweetheart came out from England and joined them. They could scarcely have gone to a more remote place, and the change between England and the Panhandle country, as they found it at that time, must have been startling. Jim married his sweetheart at Dodge City. Having business at Granada, he took his bride along; the boys teased him about his "wedding" trip. Both the young women were refined and highly educated. Miss Gator was an accomplished horsewoman, one of the best I ever saw. She taught school for several years and then married Clate McCrea. She is still living in Hansford county.
Determined that we would keep moving until we found the best buffalo country, we went south from Palo Duro and struck Moore's Creek at its source, following this stream to the South Canadian River, where we camped about two miles below the present town of Plemons.
Here we were disappointed at not finding the grass better; there was hardly enough grass for our stock. I am convinced that a number of the Panhandle streams are gradually changing. I easily recall the fact that Moore's Creek then was a narrow, swift-running stream, and at almost any point a man could jump across it. Since that day, Moore's Creek has been frequented by great herds of cattle which trample its sandy shores until wind and rain have flattened its once steep banks and given the stream a width of several hundred yards. This is true of a majority of the smaller streams that flow into the South Canadian in the Panhandle country.
In this camp on the South Canadian we paid our respects to Fairchild. All liked him, but he was so bent upon killing an Indian that we felt something must be done, as we were not down in that country to hunt Indians. Though severe, the dose had to be administered. Of course, everybody save Fairchild knew what was going on.
In a large grove of cottonwoods just above our camp hundreds upon hundreds of wild turkeys roosted every night. When a turkey hunt was proposed, to take place at night, Fairchild grew so eager and excited to go that he could scarcely control himself.
Three men were selected to slip quietly out of camp and at a certain place in the timber have a fire burning when the hunting party got there. One of them came back to serve as guide. Ostensibly he was to lead the hunters to the best and biggest roost, but actually he was to pilot them to the immediate vicinity of the fire.
Fairchild was so impatient to start that it was difficult to persuade him to wait until darkness had fallen and the turkeys had settled to roost.