CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE ONLY WAY IS UP

Our Bud, Jim and Joe Browning were rich and growing richer from the sales of their cattle. They, like other cattle kings of Texas, realized that the scrawny Texas longhorns were the best travelers over long trails, but they would bring in small returns when weighed out as beef steaks and the north and east were clamoring for beefsteaks.

It was Bud who figured that they could drive a big herd into Colorado and let them fatten for a year, then put them on the market and realize a big profit. Later, our men relieved of the chore of fattening cattle, for the eastern buyers soon established ranches toward the west and asked the Texas cowman to deliver his cattle to ranches in Colorado, Wyoming or Nebraska. These new owners could fatten their own cattle and ship them to Chicago, or Kansas city.

I well remember that in 1872 Will Metley recorded the branding of ten thousand calves with the JAB brand. In a year there were eleven thousand calves. Yes, you can say the Browning Brothers Cattle Company was doing all right, but the brothers hadn't listened to the rumors coming from the east. Nobody convinced us that there was a creeping paralysis traveling westward. We didn't know it yet, but the east had already encountered the Panic of 1873.

Newspapers brought belated news of political strife, but the government and their officials were not like next door neighbors so we didn't take politics to seriously. I can't remember women ever talking about such things. We did listen to our men folks, and of course we all knew that things would have been better had the Democrats been running affairs.

The federal mismanagement that our men growled about suddenly meant something to all the Texas cattlemen. There was no market for our cattle. The northern and eastern buyers were not interested in the thousands of calves owned by the Browning Brothers.

My Joe, ever the cheerful one, kept saying this slump would soon be over; we could hold over for a spell. After all, people had to have beef to eat.

There came a day when Bud, Jim and Joe saw their cattle kingdom crumble. I could have cried for all of them, but they had no time for tears. Joe came to me after his brothers were gone and said calmly enough, "Well, Angie, I guess we're in for some tough times again. We simply can't sell our cattle; so we decided to divide the herds and hit for better range."

If Joe could be calm about this, so could I. "Don't mind it, Joe. We'll make out. You know yourself; this being prosperous meant to much work for both of us. We can get along on a lot less."

I was saying all this just to help Joe, but all of a sudden I had convinced myself. This was good; Joe and I were closer than we had been in years. Now, he was talking to me; I was his one and only partner again.

That tired look left Joe's face as we began making plans. Joe had looked over to Bufford Creek, about ten miles away, and he said he never tasted better water. That was good enough for me; so we headed there as fast as we could. I didn't know what surprise awaited me. My Preston and Pa had come back from Missouri and were moving within a mile of us. Maybe you thinking there wasn't some hugging and shouting going on around there.

"Look who I have here! This is Jack Browning, your new grandson.

Pa booted the curly headed Jack up on his shoulder and then said, "Come on over to my wagon. I have a surprise for you." When we got to the wagon, Pa said, "Angie, this is your new Ma, Sarah."

"Angie! Angie! Don't you remember me? I was your neighbor on Finley Creek!"

Of course! Sarah Banty! A nice comfortable woman who made the best biscuits in the county. She was just the person to be with my Pa in his old age. She had been a widow for years. She had one son, who was grown and out on his own. How nice for everybody!

When I think back over the years, the next two were very peaceful and happy ones for us, although our herd was getting smaller and smaller. Joe couldn't keep up with so many head of cattle, and we had no money to hire help. We knew the cattle were drifting out of range; calves were left unbranded; outlaws were getting bolder and bolder. That third year a drought hit west Texas and ended the cattle business for my Joe and everybody else.

Joe decided he'd better sell out to a Mr. Yocum. There was no use trying to hold on any more. We knew Bud and Jim were already in east Texas, and neither had received a cent for their last steers.

Joe had already gathered the two hundred head of cattle, all that he had retained after his sale to Mr. Yocum, and he was ready to pull out for Motley County. I had to hold him up a bit, for my seventh baby was due any time now. I was so thankful that Pa's Sarah was near; there wasn't a better midwife in the county. She was such a comfort to have around.

Little George was born, and Sarah and I both thought he was a little frail looking. He was a month old before we could feel easy about him. Even then I waited another two weeks before I told Joe I thought we could move.

The frail baby wasn't the only thing that was bothering me. I could see Pa was breaking fast, I wanted to be near him. I also wanted kindly Sarah around for comfort and help.

About a week before we were to leave, I got Sarah off by herself and asked very cautiously, "Would you and Pa think about going to Motley County with us? Joe says it is right pretty country."

Sarah laughed her big hearty laugh and replied, "Gracious sakes, child! You ougta know we won't be very far from long at a time. Thomas would go wall-eyed crazy!"

Ballard Springs was our next home, and it is on the very ground where Matador City now stands. When we came to it, we found it was an old buffalo camp, where hunters came to stretch and dry hides and make ammunition for their guns.

We bought an old dug out from a buffalo trader and filled on the land surrounding it. I remember thinking, "Well, we've hit bottom; the only way, now, is up!" But I thank the good Lord and I didn't say this aloud to Joe.

My new house was simply a big hole dug out of a dirt bank, making a room about thirty feet long. Joe and I promptly divided it into two rooms. There were no widow panes, but greased paper was a fair substitute.

We hadn't even gotten settled when a tramp, who called himself Old Pat, decided to linger with us for a while. He was such a good handyman Joe didn't have the heart to send him on his way. He won my heart by making a dam three feet high across Ballard spring to form a beautiful little lake. Later Pat made a water wheel and fixed it so I could use it to do my churning.

In just a little while Pa and Sarah moved a mile from us, and in a few months Joe's step father, Mr. Stegall, came to visit us. I loved having all these around me, but I was not satisfied with my home or myself.

"When you feel restless, do something about it. Don't just sit!" Ruth's words came back to me clearly as the day she had spoken them. I wanted a school for my children. Yes, I had taught them to read and write, but Diame and Della were fourteen and twelve, and they had never been in a school.

I admit I inveigled Joe and Pat into digging out another room twenty feet long and nine feet side. When Joe got the idea that this was to be a classroom, he caught fire and was so enthusiastic that he set out for Abilene, a hundred miles away, to get doors and windows. He and Pat made benches of split logs and a table of beautiful walnut stump. This table was the only three feet square, but somebody had told us that teachers desks nowadays, and Joe intended that our first teacher would not be lacking.

I told Joe that if he would gather children in a radius of, say, twenty miles, I would board and keep them for a reasonable sum, and their parents could help pay for the teacher.

Joe gathered six Degraftenread children, three McCommis, and with four Brownings, he thought that was a good start. Before school opened, there was another McCarty in school. He was Preston's and Mary's boy, Tommy. They had moved on the other side of Pa and Sarah.

A young man, Dick Lane, was hired to instruct the children for six months. He taught every day except Friday and Sunday. I had to have help with all the washing on Friday, but Sunday with a holiday except one hour when we had Sunday School.

McGuffey's Reader and the Blueback speller were good enough school books for anybody. I managed to have "sit-down" work as much as possible so I could set at the door of the schoolroom and hear all the recitations. I had to admit to Joe that I certainly got my money's worth during the six months' term of school.

When that school was over, Joe and I decided to send Diame and Della to their grandmother Stegall in Palo Pinto County, where there was a school for young girls. When I received my first letter from them, I couldn't wait to tell Pa and Sarah. The girls admitted they were home sick, all right. Della mentioned she imagined that she could hear the cows bawling at the mild pen every evening, but they were going to stick it out, no matter what. Joe and all of us were so pleased and proud.

One thing that made life so pleasant at Ballard Springs was that we were no longer bothered by Indian raids. Mind you, we still feared the Indians, but the government had actually corralled them on their reservations, and they were forbidden to travel without passes.

We had always been told that the Tonkowas were our friends, and now we were beginning to get acquainted with them. If Joe happened to be home, he always went out to greet the men and shake hands with them, and if the day was warm, he would offer them cool water to drink.

One winter evening Joe was still out on cow-works, but it so happened that Grandpa Stegall was still visiting. He and I looked up about the same time to find a big group of Indians getting off their horses and entering our yard. Grandpa turned to me with, "There's a lot of ‘em, but I think they are Tonkowas. Let's go meet ‘em."

I walked right out to the gate and singled out the leader of this group. My heart was beating a little fast, if you must know. Something tole me this Indian was no friendly Tonkowa. It seemed to me that he resembled an Indian chief that Joe had pointed out to me once. Maybe this was Andy, chief of a Comanche tribe. I could see he had on much paint, but it was not war paint. I had a feeling he was trying to cover up that ugly mug. I just tried bluffing a little with, "Hello, Andy. You're a long way from home."

The Indian merely grunted his greeting, and I knew it was Andy. "Let me see your pass, Andy."

But he wasn't letting any woman order him around; he promptly handed his pass to Grandpa Stegall, who took a look and gasped, "Angie, this pass is two years old" What are we going to do?"

By this time all the children were gathered around me, and to make matter worse, Bob let out with, "They'll kill us, Ma!" I hushed him up in one hurry and told all of them to stand very still.

I saw one Indian come over to Jack and pull at his ear, but Jack was the one child who was not to be trifled with, and he promptly kicked the Indian in the shin. That's when I felt a real chill come over me, and I held my breath. I guess that was the language that Indian could understand for he burst out laughing, then made signs and grunted something to let me know I had quite a boy there.

Chief Andy asked in sign language, some English, but mostly grunts, if they could sleep in the rock corral that night to keep warm. Grandpa looked at me, and I nodded my head. I turned then to find Indians all over my house. They had come in from the back and had simply taken over the whole place. They were like curious children; they examined everything in every corner. One brazen, dirty buck stretched himself out on my nicest feather bed. That I could not take, and I found myself shouting, "You lousy devil! Get up from there before I bust you wide open with this spade!"

And don't think I wasn't going to hit him with the spade I'd picked up at the door, but Grandpa Stegall rushed over to me and grabbed the spade from my hand as he said, "Angie, Angie! You must be careful! You'll get us all killed!"

The dirty buck crawled from the bed and roared with laughter. How he enjoyed upsetting me. He joined with the others as they wandered all over the yard and the corrals. Then Andy came over to tell Grandpa Stegall that they were hungry, and that they wanted milk to drink. Just as I was trying to figure out how to manage all this, two cowboys, Hyde and Barber, rode up and asked if they could stay for the night. They didn't have to be told that we needed help.

I fed everybody, including the Indians, but Hyde insisted that I place the table outside and let the Indians come sit a few at a time. They seemed perfectly amiable as long as they had a chance to fill their bellies.

The next day these unwelcome visitors found a cave near the house and camped there until the following morning. When they left they took all the tools from Grandpa's blacksmith shop and gathered all the horseshoes on the place. Nobody regretted it when these Comanches, trying to hide under Tonkowas paint, drifted out of sight. This was the only discomforting experience we had at this place, and actually, we had gained some very good friends, slowly but surely.

This reminds me of the time, some weeks later, when a crowd of Lapan Indians rode up to the gate. I was glad to see them for I recognized one squaw whose name was Frances. She wanted me to meet two other squaws of her tribe. She pointed to one and called her "Canteen"; the other she pointed to and called her "Tin Cup." Our boys, Bob and Jack could hardly wait for Joe to get home so they could tell him of the new Indian names.

The Lapans had a very remarkable medicine man by the name of Jim McCord. This man could speak very good English, and Joe and I felt free to ask him many questions about his people. I remember he told us there had never been, nor ever would be any deformed Lapans. He told us that the midwives saw to it that none but the perfect babies lived.

Jim McCord seemed to enjoy dwelling on the bitter feud between the Comanches and Tonkowas. He said that hatred was so great that when a Tonkowa killed a Comanche, he quartered, scalped and burned his enemy so that he would have no chance of ever arriving at his happy hunting ground. Joe and I asked what brought on this quarrel among the two tribes. Jim said the Comanches wanted whole hog or none; they never wanted to divide; they wanted all the horses and the grain. Joe told him there were many white men like that too.

It was Frances, the Lapan squaw, who told me when their men were wounded, they kept the wound covered with damp oak leaves and poured water on the leaves every few minutes to keep it moist. She vowed that seldom last a man if he had but one bad wound.

Later we were most curious about the Tonkowas who had been hired by the government as scouts. They began to appear in our district wearing black hats with yellow cords and sporting brilliant blue shirts. The first time I saw this garb, I asked the Tonkowa what he was.

"One time me no soldier; me citizen. Now, me citizen, no soldier." I looked at him a minute trying to figure that one, but I finally had to admit wryly, "That makes it as plain as dirt to both of us." The new scout looked as puzzled as I, but one thing sure, he was very proud of his new uniform, even if he didn't quite understand his rating.

I was beginning to feel safe, even when I was left alone, if Indians stopped at our gate. I guess we were, all of us, getting civilized together.