When the day-herders came out at daylight, they began kidding us about the pie. They thought we had tried to eat it. George had told them the joke he had played on us. So we went back and hunted up the pie to see what the joke was. We found it was made out of potato skins, onion peelings and clay, and other filth around the camp, with a cover on it in a pie tin and nicely baked.
So we held a council of war to decide what to do about it. My partner wanted to take it to camp and hit him on the head with it. I suggested we make him eat it. He said that was a fine idea. Now I told him, “He is a big guy. Let’s double up on him.” So we planned our attack right there, and George not expecting it, we had him at a disadvantage. We unsaddled—walked into the cook tent.
He said, “How did you like your pie, boys?” We said, “Fine—but brought part of it to camp so you could enjoy it with us.” I had the pie in my hand and he knew what was coming. He said, “The hell with you,” and started for a butcher knife—but my partner met him head on and they clinched. I nailed him from behind and we brought him to the ground with both of us on top of him. I got the pie to his mouth but he wouldn’t open, so I used the pie tin for an opener (not very gently) and got his teeth apart. I don’t think he swallowed any of it but he at least got a good taste of it—and any other dirty thing I could reach. When the pie-eating contest was over and had worked out to the messwagon tongue, and when we let George up, the first thing his hand found was the neck-yoke which was about four feet long, and a bad weapon just at that time, and George was sure going to clean up on us. But my partner had a forty-five Colts stuck in his chaps that George didn’t see and before he could get the neck-yoke into action, the gun was right against his stomach—full cock. He throwed the neck-yoke over his head and both hands in the air and said, “Don’t kill me.” Then we gave him some not too kind advice what his actions should be towards us in the future, and I will say George was a pretty good dog from that time on.
That is the only time I ever double-teamed on anyone but felt justified that time under the circumstances.
When the men came in off that day’s ride, George took his troubles to the boss, told him how we had doubled up on him and abused him. All he got was a hearty laugh from the boss (he was a Texas man). He said, “Did they sho ’nuff really make you eat the pie, George?”
When we got to the railroad with that herd, there was two other big outfits shipping beef and we had to wait several days to get cars for our cattle. Big Sandy was the shipping point. The town had two saloons, one hotel, one store, stockyards and livery stable, and a jail. We had plenty of help and we took shifts holding the cattle. Those that wasn’t on shift spent most of their time in town, and it was sure lively during shipping time—and looked as good as Chicago to some of them cowboys.
There was also a lot of half breed Indians gathering buffalo bones and brought them there to ship. Most of them drank plenty whiskey and with their families had dances every night. The musician would be some half breed with moccasins on, and he kept time with both feet while he played.
The town had a constable to keep order, and he was quite lame. One night he arrested two half breeds and was taking them to jail. One got away from him. He let the other one loose to catch him and he ran away, and he didn’t catch the first one, so he lost them both. Them breeds with moccasins on could sure run.
One night a fist fight started between the cowboys and the breeds. There was several fights going on at the same time. An old buffalo hunter was in among them, with his hands in his pockets, looking on. It was dark and some cowboy thought he was a breed. He took a run at him and hit him on the side of his head with all his strength and he went down. About that time he discovered his mistake and went to help him up. He said, “Fred, I am sure sorry. I didn’t know that was you.” Fred said, “I guess you are sorry all right—but that don’t help my ear any.”
There was several commission men in town that night, trying to get cattle consigned to their different houses in Chicago. One of them had never been West before. There were some of them playing a social game of cards in one of the saloons. Every little while some cowboy would shoot his six-shooter off right in the saloon. This fellow was very nervous and could not get his attention on the game. Finally he went to light his cigar. About that time somebody shot a gun off and his match went out. He jumped up right quick and said, “Quit playing cards. This is getting too damn close for me!” That tickled Charlie Russell and he told the fellow he saw the bullet go right by his nose. He said he knew it did.