Diary

Hunt trip Oct. 2^nd to Nov. 1^st A. D. 1895

Llano, Texas
Oct. 2, 1895

After many trials and tribulations--, Lee Barler and I, old Red, Matillo, and Nig—on this day at 10:00 o’clock A.M. pulled out of Llano on our long talked of trip, thoroughly equipped from the pursuit and capture of anything from a grizzly bear down to a wharf rat.  We reached Six Mile Creek at a point six miles west of Llano, on the road leading to Mason, without mishap or adventure; but at this point, upon trying to make Nig quit his dead-beating and pull up even with Matillo, he began lunging, which resulted in a broken double tree.  Fortunately, we had anticipated this and brought          for a double tree along, and being “thoroughly equipped” as before stated—after wrapping, nailing, screwing, and twisting, we succeeded in mending the broken article sufficiently to take us to Hickory Creek-nine miles from Llano-where we struck camp for dinner and repairs.  After about three hours hard work and as many mashed fingers, we succeeded in repairing the damage done, hitched up and pulled for Castell, reached that point just after dark, and on crossing the river, to our dismay, we discovered that we had lost our wagon sheet although we were so sure it could not lose.  We noticed our loss just after we had crossed the channel of the river, and the question with us was, had we lost it before reaching the river?  If so, where? How far back?  If we had not lost it before reaching the river, it had fallen into the water and been borne away by the current, and was lost to us, our heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns forever.

We had to do something, so we took out Matillo and Lee got on him and went back to hunt the sheet and me, all the time knowing it had fallen in the river and was gone.  He found the sheet about a mile back on the road, and we went on our way rejoicing a mile up the river from Castell, where we struck camp for the night without further mishap-save the loss of a hack wrench- a most indispensable article, but not very costly.  We had birds for both dinner and supper, ate with the appetites enjoyed only by hunters, and that night dreamed of apes, hobgoblins, snakes, and bobtailed monkeys.

Thursday Oct. 3^rd.

We broke camp early, nooned at Conksville, a mile west of Mason, where we reloaded our plunder for the purpose of economizing space and equalizing the weight; and here for the first time, we realized that we were a little heavily loaded.  We here finished our supply of repair materials, by getting a considerable coil of bail wire, and headed for Streeter, a post office ten miles from Mason on the Junction City road.  We struck camp for the night in a hair-lipped man’s pasture one half mile before reaching Streeter, it being then past sundown.  The old man, whose name was Rainey was clever to us, let us turn our horses in his pasture, and only charged us 5 cents per head, and throwed in all the good butter milk we could drink, and besides gave us his store of political knowledge, among which were some sound common-sense ideas.

Friday Oct 4^th.

About 7:00 o’clock A. M., after a good night’s sleep and fewer bad dreams, we hitched up and started for London, 25 miles from Mason, where we camped about 1:00 o’clock. P.M. and decided to stay over until next morning.  We got “paid” permission to camp in a pasture near by, where grass was right good, and good water to be had at the well at the gin near at hand.  While watering our horses at this well which was just beside the whistle pipe, being already nervous and somewhat shy of the active machinery, at a keen toot form the whistle, they broke loose, and my heart stood still for a second as I saw Matillo, closely followed by Nig, wildly and frantically dashing toward a barbed wire fence, not twenty steps away.  Matillo again exhibited the good sense which has always characterized his actions, by rearing back upon his haunches when the “strung dagger” were no more that three feet from his breast, just in time to keep from being cut to pieces.  We spent the afternoon very pleasantly with Miss Callie, what time we were not shooting quail, a nice covey of which we found in a field near by.  That evening we called on Miss Callie, took the harp and guitar, and spent a pleasant evening.

Saturday, Oct 5^th.

After another run for quail, resulting in the killing of one quail and two doves, we breakfasted about 9:50 A. M., hitched up our horses and drove down to the blacksmith shop to have some iron washers put on the spindles of our hack, where we were detained until about 1:30 o’clock P.  M. The blacksmith (Mr. Walker) did a good job, charged 50 cents, and we started to what is called the “ten mile point”, from Junction City, where, off the road west, three quarters of a mile, I knew there was good hunting-where we expected to stop over and hunt deer that evening and next morning.  When we reached “the point” at which we expected to turn up to the hunting ground, we found ourselves in a lane, with barbed wire fence on either side and not a gate for miles.  Our disappointment was great and we very seriously meditated pulling up tow or three fence posts, laying them flat on the ground, and driving over and on to our “would be” hunting grounds.  We deliberated, however, weighed the consequences of a row kicked up by the owner of the fence a probable criminal prosecution, and decided to go on to Junction City, just ten miles distant, which we did, driving it in two hours.

We had noticed that our hack springs were too weak for our load and decided to strengthen them by wrapping them well with small hard-twisted rope.  We reached Junction City about dusk, found Holycamp’s store open, bought 75 feet of rope which we thought would be ample to wrap the four hack springs with, a small bottle of pickles, and drove up North Llano a mile and half, and struck camp with the expectation of spending the next day (Sunday) quietly reading, writing, etc. but on looking around, we found we had no grass for our horses, so tied them up to a bundle of rusty cane, ate supper, said our prayers and went to bed.

Sunday Oct. 6^th.

I awakened early, aroused Lee, who by the way is a good sound sleeper, and without getting breakfast, he went back to town to inquire for mail, get some stamps and envelopes, while I worked on the brake blocks to make them hold better.  Lee returned about 8:30 o’clock bringing me a letter from my girl, post marked Santa Anna, Cal.  I had finished the brake blocks, and succeeded in cutting one finger nearly off with the hatchet; and we decided after eating a scant breakfast to drive on up the river to good grass, take a few moments to wrap the springs of our hack and to repair a weak place in our hack tongue, and spend the balance of the day in rest, as becomes one the Sabbath.  We drove to a point near the seven mile past from Junction City where the grass was good, hoppled out our horse, and to have everything off our hands, we concluded we would do our few minutes repairing, and then have a good time.  So we started into that “few minutes repairing” vigorously, spent two hours in trying to fix the weak place in our hack tongue with bail wire, when we realized however well we might consider ourselves equipped, we were surely in need of wire cutters. When we had finished this job to our satisfaction, we were determined to get the “repairs” off our hands, so we started in without a moment’s intermission with 195 feet small hard twisted rope “Lee having gotten 118 feet more that morning, to be sure and have enough to wrap all four of the springs) and worked like beavers, knocking off what little skin we had left on our hands.  We came out from under the hack with cramped limbs and broken backs at about 5:00 o’clock P.M. (never having stopped for dinner).  Had we finished the job? No! we soon saw we did not have rope enough, so we wrapped the front and hind spring, having only about ten feet of rope left, and left the side springs unwrapped.  No, the job is not finished, but either of us would break down, walk and carry our luggage from here to the Davis Mountains, and from there back to Llano before we would attempt to wrap another spring.

We have been engaged up to this time in preventative repairing and I now vow that the next repairing I do will be corrective.  We set some hooks, stretched our tent, got supper, feed the horses, and stretched the hack sheet just as it began raining.  We spent the evening not listening to the “patter of the soft rain over head” as the poet romantically puts it, but felling the cold water run down our backs and dripping off our noses, to put it plainly, without poetical disguise.  We wrote to our “people” however.  Lee wrote to his sister, Miss Cora, and I wrote to my sister Lute, and my girl Minnie …………..one page is torn out…….and returned at 10:00 o’clock P.M. as tired and sore as if I had gone through a thrashing machine. Oh, it is awful funny.

Monday, Oct 7^th.

We left camp early, having caught no fish the night before, as we had expected to do, in search of a combination of wood, water, grass, hunting ground.  Of course, we knew we were looking for a rare combination, as we had found only one at a time hitherto.  We again struck camp about 18 miles west of Junction City on the North Llano, where we found wood and water plentiful, and grass in great abundance in the pasture of M. Frank Cleuth, who kindly tendered us the privilege of turning our horses inside.  Mr. Cleuth is an old acquaintance of T. J. Moore’s and used to be around Llano a great deal. He is a clever gentlemen, told us there were some deer in his pasture, composed of 10,000- acres lying north of the road, and told us to hunt there as long as we pleased.  We decided to remain over night at this place and take a hunt-which we took, and it was as fruitless as our fish of the night before.

The whole country is a beautiful landscape.  The North Llano is skirted on either side with mountains something like those seen at a distance from La Vista, but higher, larger and more precipitous and more nearly approaching the sublime.  The road, so far, has been good, though an up grade most of the way.  The river, at this point, looks more like a perpetually flowing creek at the shoals and rapid, but elsewhere there are pools-deep, broad, and long-which justly entitles it to the dignity of river, -even here, within short distance of its source.

There seems to be an abundance of fish, but we have made no special effort to catch them.  The snake product seems limitless,--they are so thick and some of them are so big and ugly-my Irish asserts itself, and tells me not to go to the hooks after dark, as we have no “snake bite” along, a very uncommon occurrence; but snake or no snake, one heartily endorsed by a cranky little friend of mine that I would like very much to see just now.  She and I are believers in mental telegraphy and I almost feel sure our souls are communing.

Tuesday, Oct. 8^th.

We again started early, and following the road from Junction City to Sonora, which hugs the river bottom as though frightened at the rugged mountains and towering cliffs on either side, passed old Fort Ferret, which though long deserted, tells plainly the story of wealth lavished by hands that did not earn it.  This old Fort is thirty miles west of Junction City and within 200 yards of the head waters of North Llano, the water bursts forth from its earthen prison, and at once becomes a freely flowing river-both beautiful and grand.  While this is “the head” of the river, so far as water is concerned, the canyon-or draw-extends on for many miles, but is without water, except in wet seasons.  Driving on past old Fort Terrett, we nooned at a pool of water about five or six miles above.  We are now camped at a pool of water in the same draw we have been following all day, sixteen miles east of Sonora.  We struck a bunch of ducks three or four miles back.  I got a “pot shot”, killing two.  Lee killed one on the wing, and I killed another, making four altogether.  We took our first hunt for deer this evening from our present camp, but saw none.  It is good country for them, however, or looks to be-and I will try it again in the morning.

Wednesday Oct. 9^th.

I awakened about daylight, as cold as a collard stalk, hastily made my “toilet” by putting on my hat and shoes-took my gun and started to the hills-by reason of our rapid ascent, they have lost their dignity as mountains.  As the sun was just peeping over the hill from toward Llano, I saw two deer leisurely breaking their fast upon shin oak acorns, about 80 yards from me.  I was near enough and did not care to get closer, so I calmly sat down, set my trigger and waited for the deer to come into a little opening toward which they were moving.  As they came into the opening, I felt a trophy dangling from my belt, and could smell venison cooking.  I raised my gun and was in the act of taking aim when, with a clumsy glove I had on, I accidentally touched the trigger before I was ready and the bullet whistled harmlessly through the air, and I saw the flash of two white tails through smoke, and all was over.  I went to camp and tried to get Lee to kick me, and eat duck instead of venison for breakfast.

We broke camp about 9:00 o’clock A. M., passed through Sonora t 12:30 P.M., made a few purchases, inquired for mail, got none, nooned two miles west of town, and are now camped 12 miles west of Sonora at a windmill on the road leading to Ozona.  We are in a large pasture owned by a Mr. Taylor.  We ate bacon for dinner, and molasses for supper, having killed nothing today except a curlew.  There does not seem to be any deer near here so we will leave camp early in the morning.

Thursday, Oct. 10^th.

At this writing the day is gone and we are 27 miles from our last camping place, and 192 miles from Llano, and according to reports, have left the only good hunting grounds.   If the pursuer of this ever went hunting in a strange country, he has been struck with the fact that the good hunting ground is from 50 to 125 miles away, and recedes before his weary footsteps, like the imaginary lake upon the plains.

We left camp early, according to resolutions of the night before, passed through the 135,000 acre pasture of Dr. Taylor, containing 22 windmills, interviewing numerous persons hailing from various sections of the country, learned that in order to make the trip to Davis Mountains, we must go 200 miles further and must be prepared to haul two days supply of water for the horses, as well as ourselves; so we abandoned the purpose as the height of folly, as we only have two small canteens along.  We still pursued our course westward, however, crossing the head draws of Devil’s River, and passing upon the high, bold prairie between two of the, three little houses and a church in a group, reminding one very forcibly of a “forlorn hope.”  This little place is thirty-four miles west of Sonora, and was once known by the political and euphonious name of Emerald, when it aspired to be the county site of this, Crocket County.  We could see for miles in every direction and not a house or an acre of cultivated land could be seen.  It called to mind the poem I once read, and I likened it to the character in whose mouth the poet put these words:

“I feel like one who stands alone

Some banquet hall deserted

Whose hopes are fled, whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed.”

Sic miles further on, west of this specimen of “shattered hopes and crushed ambitions”, in another head draw of Devil’s River, we reached the beautiful little town of Ozona, whose fortune was built upon ruin of Emerald, and the present county site of Crocket County.  It has about 500 inhabitants, and the prettiest jail I ever saw.

We are now camped 2 miles west of Ozona at a windmill with the hunting ground-if we believe what we are told-as far from us as ever.  Our days conquests consists of a cotton tail rabbit, and a skunk.  We haven’t so much as seen a blue quail, for which these regions are famed abroad.

We will quit this spot in the early morn, for whither, His Satanic Majesty, under whose guidance we must have fallen, only can tell.  We have passed a resolution not to believe any man on oath, when the subject matter of his speech is “hunting ground.”  We are going to hunt it ourselves, for verily, we believe this is a lying people.

The day is concluded by writing to Minnie and Lute, and I will now repair to my bed room-the grandest on earth-walled in by indefinite space, roofed by the blue canopy of Heaven, carpeted by the bountiful hand of God, and lighted by the twinkling little stars.

Friday, Oct. 11^th.

We are now camped in Howard’s Draw, 21 miles from our last camp and 213 miles from Llano, at the ranch of John Henderson.  We have met the head man on the ranch- a Mr. Westfall, cousin to the Gray boys at Llano, and a clever fellow he is, too.  We have found a few blue quail today, and had some sport in that line.  There are a few scattering deer in this country, but at every watering place there is a ranch, and the deer seem to be driven back on the high, dry ridges out of our reach-almost.  We have begun our hunting, anyway-took a considerable round this evening and found nothing.

Our newly made friend, Mr. Westfall, is a true type of the old time West Texas Stockman, and extends genially that true Western hospitality, for which the frontier of Texas was renowned in days that are no more.  He had just killed a big fat calf, and told us to come up and get some of it. We went, of course, having had no meat but birds for several days, and he told us to take a whole quarter if we wanted it.  Our well known modesty forbid the acceptance of the generous offer, and on being told to cut off what we wanted, I took a bowie knife, and cut off some three or four pounds, and when he looked around and saw what we were taking he said: “H—l, why don’t you take some beef” took the knife out of my hands and cut off more that a fourth of the choicest part of the hind quarter and made us add it to our “modest slice.”

The letters we wrote last night, we failed to have an opportunity to send to the office today, so we will leave them at this ranch to be sent the first opportunity.

The roads so far have been better than we expected, but we leave the public road now and are striking a rougher country and expect to catch “dunder und blixen” before we get back to it again.

Saturday, Oct. 12^th.

Lee got up this morning with a headache and I went hunting alone and found nothing.  It is a “Picnic” to hunt in a country like this.  The canon (Howard draw) at this point is a mile from foot hill to foot hill, and the mountains on either side are perhaps one hundred feet above the valley, rocky, precipitous, and hard to climb, the side hills covered with soto, bear grass, cat claw, and almost everything else that is sharp at the point, or has a thorn on it.  The shin oak, the only attraction for deer, is very scattering.  There is an occasional cluster of skin oak around the foothills where the canons, coming into the main draw, strike the valley, but mostly along the brow of the hills.  The hunter, in starting out, will select the largest skin oak thicket in sight, and if his game isn’t “jumped” there, he has to walk a half mile or more before he can reach another where there is any probability of being a deer.

I got in from my hunt this morning about 10:00 o’clock.  Lee had breakfast ready and we ate, repacked our hack, and drove to this point, about 5 miles down the draw (running southwest) and two miles up an intersecting canon, where we watered our horses, filled our kegs and canteens at a windmill, being one of several along the draw belonging to a large sheep ranch, drove a mile further up the canon, hoppled out the horses, shouldered our guns and went hunting.  We found that the sheep have stripped the shin oaks of acorns, as well as leaves.  A deer that is able to walk wouldn’t stay in such a country and as we are not hunting cripples, and tomorrow is Sunday, we are not going hunting, but will hitch up and quietly drive on down some 8 or 10 miles to Howard’s Wells, and there get information as to the nearest way out of, and then get out as quick as possible. Oh! It is awfully funny!

Sunday, Oct. 13^th

According to promise, we did not hunt today but quietly drove down the draw to Howard Wells, where we were told the way out of that forsaken country.  We watered out the horses at the wells and drove out about three miles and made a dry camp for dinner.  We struck a large covey of blue quail and forgetting all about it being Sunday, we opened fire on them and had quail to throw away.  We had now turned a general S.E. course, but repeatedly turned to every point of the compass in order to do so.  We were traveling up a canon which was a tributary of the main draw we were leaving, and when we reached the head and started to ascend the mountains, we struck what Lee said was the capitol of His Satanic Majesty’s realm, only he said much more briefly.  About half way up the steepest, rockiest mountain that a wagon ever went over, “snap” went the double tree, about 3:00 o’clock in the afternoon, ten miles from water, not a stick of timber in sight, and the worst part of the mountain still to climb.  I looked at Lee and he at me, and then is when Lee said what we had found.  I shouldered the axe and started across the prairie for the head of a canyon in search of timber large enough to patch a double tree with, secured the necessary timber to repair the damage done, hooked the traces, patted Matillo on the neck and talked love to him, and I never saw a yoke of oxen pull truer that our horses did. They seemed to realize what Lee had said about it, and that we were in a fix.  I can say, without exaggeration, that a truer team never was hooked in harness.  We reached the top of the hill with a broken stay chain and split cross bar to the hack bed, and out of breath.  We took what water we had left in the kegs and gave it to the horses.  We had been informed that it was twenty miles from Howard’s Well to the next windmill on the old government road leading from San Antonio to old Fort Stockton, which we were traveling, but had been further told that we would find water in the heads of canyons off the side of the road.  We started again, knowing it was about ten or twelve miles to the windmill, and as we started down a canon, tributary to Devils River and night being on us-I left the road to hunt water sufficient for the wants of ourselves and horses.  I walked and ran some four or five miles in a fruitless search, returned to the road, and met the hack about dark.  The road was too rough to travel after night, but our horses were thirsty and we determined to go on to the wind mill. I lighted the lantern, went ahead on foot, picked out the road, Lee driving after me, and in this manner we traveled until 9:00 o’clock at night when the idea struck us that we might have passed it without seeing it; and we had no idea how far it was to the next water, so we there struck, not only a “dry” but a hungry camp, having no water to cook with, and having nothing on hand ready cooked.  We got up at day light, hitched up without feeding, and, there being no evidences of a wind mill on our back track, we drove on about a mile and came in sight of the one we had been looking for, and sure enough it was stuck away off to one side, around a point of mountain, where we never could have seen it after night.

Monday, Oct. 14^th.

We found the windmill, as stated above, watered, and drove down Johnson Fork of Devils River into which we had come at the windmill, intersected the Ozona and Comstock road, traveled it about two miles and stopped for breakfast, the first we had eaten since noon the day before.  We rested some two hours and a half and drove on down the Ozona and Comstock road about five miles to where it left the canon we were following.  We turned of to the left, coming on down Johnson Fork and are now camped at its mouth on main Devils River, about 3 miles below Juno and 5 miles below Beaver Lake, where I killed two ducks before we unhitched.  I will mention, in coming down the canon this afternoon we saw blue quail by the hundreds and killed so many that we only saved the breasts and threw some away whole, having more that we knew what to do with.

The topography of the country, I will try and give some later day when I learn more of it.  We haven’t made any hunt, having seen nor heard nothing to encourage such a purpose.  We expect to drift back toward the head of the Nueses where there is a kind of country we know how to hunt in.  Deliver me from a bald prairie for deer hunting.

Tuesday, Oct. 15^th.

The mouth of Johnson Fork of Devils River, where we camped last night, is two miles below Juno.  Our camp was at the lower end of a lake, about 600 yards long, and from 100 to 150 yards wide and from one to 3 feet deep with mud bottom and full of moss; and from this lake flows a channel of water down the rocky shoal of some 12 feet wide, and from two to six inches deep.  The mountains on either side come in threateningly near the river, completely covered with sato and prickly pear.  Grass is very scant on the hill sides and the valleys, also, except as occasional spot along near the river bank, where there is a good turf; but this being the only lasting water for many miles north, east, and west, it is kept rather close.

There are some ducks on the river, but they are hard to get on the lake mentioned, for the reason they are always on the “other side.”

We drove up to Juno, the little Mexican village on the river and bought some timber for a double tree to supply the place of the patched one on hand, paid $1.00 for it, when it could have been bought in Llano for 25 cents, and had some more work done on our hack by the blacksmith-a Mexican- and tried to get a cagar just to see how good it would taste.  I called at H. Steine’s store-the only one there- and found that he had been closed out the day before under execution; was directed to the saloon, a typical Mexican shanty, where I called and learned that they were “just out”, but that their fall and winter stock, consisting of one box of Old Virginia Cheroots, would be in on the mail about noon.

We left Juno behind with Beaver Lake, about 3 miles above on the river as our objective point.  We took the wrong road, got tangled up in the back string of a Mexican’s pasture fence, and there saw a burro, in being guilty of a little “amiable indiscretion” get tangled in a barbed wire fence.  As the Mexican’s house was near and Matillo got scared at the burro and just wouldn’t pass, I left my gun in the hack, to keep from having too much of a warlike appearance, and went to the house to spread the news of their disaster.  I reached the door and was in the act of telling them all the Spanish I knew, when a dog made a lunge at me, took a good sized chunk out of my right leg, and was giving me quite a tussle, when the old lady came to my rescue with an axe.

We got back in our road, reached Beaver Lake, a long narrow and deep pool, which is supposed to have been made years ago by the beavers damming up the channel of the river.  This is the head water of Devils River and is fed by numerous springs.  Out of this lake flows a current of water about one half as large as the lower one, and on down below the volume of water is rapidly increased.

We struck three Ozona men at Beaver Lake who had been fishing since the evening before, and hadn’t caught a fish-then I wished for Sam.  Lee decided he could catch them, so I gave him a furlow while I made a double tree. I killed a duck in a mud pool-off a little ways from the river- and told a passing Mexican he could have it if he would get it out, and he seemed so eager to get it that he waded in the mud almost knee deep with his shoes on.  The duck –no doubt- furnished him the only square meal he had had for weeks.

We left Beaver Lake about 4:00 o’clock, beating our way toward the head of the Nueces River.  We are now about 8 miles S. of east from the lake, camped on the head of a draw running in to Devils River from the east.  We are near a sheep ranch, but I took a hunt this evening and saw some deer sign, and will take another in the morning.

At Juno today, I wrote to my girl and sister again.

Wednesday, Oct. 16^th.

I took my hunt this morning while Lee slept and awaited the sun to melt the frost off the cover.  I found nothing except tracks and returned to camp about an hour by sun.  Lee had been up about five minutes and was broiling some bacon and at my suggestion that I would go bring the horses, he remarked that “we had as well eat breakfast.”  I said, “Where is the coffee?”  He said, “Well, by George, I forgot to make any,” and then went about making it.  I went on after the horses and brought them up; he called breakfast again and discovered for the first time there was no bread.

We finally got through and started about 9:30 o’clock A. M. for Tom White’s ranch on East Dolan, a tributary of main Devils river, running in from the east side.  We reached the ranch at 12:00 o’clock and nooned there and bought 1 ½ bushel of corn at 75 cents per bushel.  We also procured an old collar, Nig’s shoulder being a little sore, we wanted one that we didn’t mind cutting, to suit the emergency. 

Mr. White was accommodating to us, but is a sheep man and did not know much.  We got directions, however, to Dry Devils river (or at least we suppose so) and have come about 7 miles on the way there.  Seven miles a short half day’s drive?  That depends on where you are going and what kind of a road you have, and how much time you spend “fixing things.”  It will be borne in mind that this is a very mountainous country and very rocky.  We are coming over a road-or cow trail-that has never been traveled since the flood, except by one adventurous spirit, and so far as we know, he has never been heard of since.  We came across the hind wheels (broken) and part of the bed of his vehicle, the bed having the appearance of having been chopped off with a hatchet.  After taking a close survey of the wreck, we drove on a hundred yards, perhaps, and found the front wheels and the other part of the bed so badly mixed up that it very slightly resembled a vehicle.  Near by was a empty whiskey bottle, and we looked around for a human skeleton, but found none.

I forgot to mention that we found, on the head of East Dolan, the San Antonio Express of date Oct. 8^th, and it seemed like meeting an old friend.  Our eager eyes fell upon “Llano”, and we proceeded to read and learned that Miss Nannie McGinnis was on a visit to Mason, which was real interesting to us though we knew all about it, and met her returning to Llano on Oct. 3^rd, five days before the date of the paper.  We also leaned that Mr. and Mrs. Sweetman (which we figured out to mean Oatman) as we saw Mr. and Mrs. Marsh Oatman in Mason the day we passed through there) were visiting in Mason, and that Miss Sadie, evidently intended for Tedie Monroe, had returned from a visit to Lampasas.  This news was all highly entertaining to us. As stated before, we are seven miles from Mr. White’s ranch, a little South of East, on a canyon that runs into Dry Devils River some five or six miles below here. The mountains are rather high and steep and the canons narrow and deep.  We struck camp about an hour by sun, hoppeled out, took our guns and went hunting.  After we had been out some three quarters of an hour, I heard Lee shoot, and from that time till nearly dark he continued firing at irregular intervals.  In the meantime, I had returned to camp, got up wood, built a fire, and fed the horses.  Dark came and some half hour afterwards and still Lee did not put in an appearance.  I knew that he had killed a canon full of deer, had fallen off a bluff and was signaling for help, or had gotten into a fight with a panther and run it out of the country, he perhaps working in the lead.  Finally I heard another shot and Comanche yell which I knew to mean distress of some kind, so I shouldered my Winchester, and took old Red and went to the rescue.  I found him on the mountain about a mile southwest of camp with a hide and a pair of yearling deer hams across his shoulder, and did not know which way camp was.  Well, we had venison for supper and have plenty more hanging in a tree near at hand.

I can’t help thinking, sometimes, what an awful fix we would be in if anything should happen.  It is forty miles to Nowhere, and one may ride over the country for weeks and never see a human being, and darned few Mexicans.

Thursday Oct. 17^th.

We took a big round hunting this morning and coming back down the canon toward camp, I came in sight of the horses and saw a Mexican riding toward them, I thought of what Miss Bertha had said about our horses being stolen by the Mexicans and hastened down the side of the mountain to get in gun range by the time he reached the horses.  He looked up and saw me and rode on by, as I suppose he intended to do had I not been there.  I wanted to ask him a few hundred questions about this Nobody’s Country and signaled him to wait, but he paid no attention and rode on.  When Lee returned, we held a council of war and decided that he had killed the only deer in the country the evening before and that it was locoed or it would not have been there.  We concluded to try and make our way to a place called Bradfords Spring on Dry Devils River, the only water we have been able to hear of for thirty miles.  We drove down the canyon about five miles and came to what we supposed was Dry Devils River, though the surroundings did not correspond to our sheep-man White’s description.  We took a wrong road and followed it about two miles to where it started to the ridges and headed toward the Rio Grande, drove back and took the other end of it, which led up the main draw of what we supposed to be Dry Devils River, and knew to be a devil of a dry one.  The day was as hot as August, and it being about noon our horses were almost famished for water, having had none since the evening before.  We had traveled further up the river that we were told the spring was, and I had run up and down canons looking for “pot holes” of water until my tongue was hanging out, and when we spied a wind mill about a mile and a half to our left up a canon, a thing that we were told was not to be seen in the vicinity we were supposed to be in, we concluded we were not on Dry Devils River at all-that it was merely a devil of a dry river, but we didn’t care a “continental” as water was in sight; so with joyful hearts, parched tongues, and panting horses, we pulled off up the canon to the windmill, fully resolved to bring a windmill with us if we ever came off on another trip like this.  When we reached the windmill, imagine our disappointment to find it broken and disused.  Everything about it was broken so even we, with our extraordinary faculties fro mending, considered it a hopeless case.  It looked very much like one of Don Quixote’s conquests.  We pulled back to the road, if road it could be called, where we had left it, and continued our course up the draw.  Water had now become a serious question as it was about 2:00 o’clock P. M.  I saw an old gray horse standing off from the road under the shade of a mesquite bush, the first animal of any kind we had seen during the day.  I went out close to where he stood, gave him a critical examination, and decided he had recently had water.  I took his back trail which led me up the side of the mountain into a dim trail which gradually grew plainer-and I knew we were near where water had been.  I motioned to Lee to drive on up the valley and thinking no further about him, followed my trail on to a little seepe spring about 200 yards up a canon and so rough a Rocky Mountain goat would pause before attempting the ascent.  I looked down the canon and was dumbfounded and horror struck-for there came Lee driving right up the canon.  It was too late to stop, however, as there was no possible way of turning around, so we drove on up as far as we could go and took the horses out and got dinner, supper, and breakfast all at one time, as we could only find wood enough for one fire, and had to carry that a half mile.  We turned the hack around by prizing and lifting. On seven feet of ground, and Lee went hunting alone, as my walk after water had made me feel a little disinclined. He returned about dusk, reporting no game in the country, but said there was a windmill up a canon about a mile and a half to our northwest.  We are anxious to see someone to learn where we are and where the thunder we are going, so we took our guns after supper and started up there to see if any one lived there.  We walked fully three miles on an old and very dim road which Lee said let to it, but no windmill could we find.  We were both fagged out and three miles or more from camp, so we concluded the mill was under some enchantment that rendered it invisible to us, and returned to camp as tired and sleepy as boys ever were.  We are having two difficulties in this country-first, there is no game, and second, if there were, we haven’t time to hunt it, for hunting water and trying to learn where we are and how the mischief to get out.

Friday, Oct 18^th.

I had one of my characteristic dreams last night.  I dreamed that Matillo was acting ugly, jerked loose from me, and would not let me catch him.  I awakened this morning about daylight and call it superstition or what not I felt something was wrong.  I got up and started after the horses-both were belled-but no bell could I hear.  I looked off the mountain into the valley where I could see for a considerable distance, and, though they had not given us a particle of trouble before, I knew they were gone.  I went down in the valley, stuck their trail and followed it about a mile, took my course and a kangaroo gallop and caught them about 3 ½ miles from camp, coming toward home.  We expected to start early this morning and try to get somewhere; we did not care where, but were delayed by the bad conduct of the horses.

After driving some distance, and the horses beginning to get thirsty, we thought ourselves in luck by coming in sight of a windmill, this time on our road.  On nearing it, however, we found it broken, battered, and disused, which, together with our experience yesterday and last night, formed a fixed opinion in our minds that this is the country where the chivalric Don Quixote and his faithful squire, Sancho Panza, through their intrepid and victorious attacks upon windmills consigned their names to immortality, and that no one has been through here since.

Driving on, as luck would have it; we struck a “pot hole” about noon, and camped for noon and night.  A “pot hole” is a hole in the limestone rocks found sometimes through this country, and if they happen to be situated so there is drainage into them, a very light rain will fill them, and, there being no leak, will last until it is drank out or dried up by the process of evaporation.

I took my gun about 2:30 o’clock this afternoon and went out on a prospecting tour, more to find something from which to get our bearings that to hunt game.  I took the road we are traveling, which is very dim; and there is no sign of but one wagon and two horsed being over it since the rain, some five or six weeks ago, and they passed while it was still muddy.  We think we are on the road running from Del Rio to Rock Springs, but can’t find anybody or anything to verify the fact-if it is a fact.  As I said, I took the road we are trying to travel, which lead me to the head of the draw we are now on, across the head of another, and to a high ridge from which I could see across a long and broad tray shaped flat, with nothing to obstruct the view except low clumps of shin oak.  I could see the heads of canons running eastwardly, which I took to be tributaries of the Nueces, but no sign of life presented itself to view.  I looked long and closely-and finally-in the dim distance some five miles away, perhaps, I saw that which fact or imagination shaped into a windmill. The question is: Is it a windmill?  If so, then is it, or not, another relic of the Quixote Crusade?  I was then some two miles or more east of camp and took a circle northward and around the camp, through the prettiest deer country in the world, but the trouble is there was no sign of deer.  My opinion is that during the late drought in this country, the deer all left on account of lack of water; and they had better stay away, too, unless they can find water better that we can.  We, being near the heads of the draws, the hills are low and easily climbed, and covered with clumps of shinery, literally loaded down with acorns ripe and falling.

When I returned to camp about 5:00 o’clock, Lee and old Red were gone.  Dark came, I had supper ready, and yet Lee didn’t appear.  Some little bit after dark, I fired off a shot gun which sounded like a young cannon, and I heard Lee’s rifle in response.  He had just forgotten (?) where camp was.  About old Red, I want to say he is the aristocrat of the crowd.  He wants to ride on the seat, insists on a pillow for heading, and won’t eat anything but quail on toast. 

Lee got in with no better luck than I, and here we are at bed time, no better off nor wiser that we were this morning.  We are not lost-we know where we are all right, but we have lost the rest of the world and don’t know where anyplace, anything, or anybody is.

Saturday, Oct. 19^th.

We broke camp about 7:40 o’clock this morning and continued to follow our dim road, which led nearly east and toward the supposed windmill I discovered last evening.  We traveled about three miles when the only wagon track in the road left it.  We went a little further and the road went to a frazzle and there was no more of it.  We were out of sight of our supposed mill and had given it up as a myth, but continued our course as near as practical purposing to general our way through the forsaken country without a road.  We were feeling just a little gloomy, on account of the uncertainty of finding water, when I saw a man’s head and shoulders just over the ridge from us, and going in an opposite direction.  We fell in after him with as much zeal as we could chase a wounded buck, overtook him, found that he was a Mexican and could not speak a word of English.  I bought into requisition my little spattering of Spanish, and learned that we were near a sheep ranch, to which we got directions.  When we reached the ranch a Mr. John Warden, the owner, gave us all the information we had been wanting so badly.  We found that we were about 60 miles S.W. of Junction City, about 25 miles west of Rock Springs, and on the head draws of the Nueces.  We continued our journey toward Rock Springs, and ten miles from the point, I saw it, passed the windmill I thought I had found last evening in the “dim distant.”  We, having reached the border land of civilization, we found more roads than we knew what to do with-we took a wrong one, traveled some 7 or 8 miles out of the way, drifted back to the right road, watered our horses, and filled our kegs at a windmill a few miles back, and are now camped about 8 or 10 miles from Rock Springs, where Warden told us we might find hunting.

We met a Mr. Starr this morning, the man who killed the Mexican sheep herder some two years ago, and he told us game was very scarce; that hundreds of deer starved to death for water during the late drought, which partially verifies my supposition that they had left the country on account of water.

We went hunting this evening with our usual luck, but saw enough to convince us there are some few deer in here.

Sunday, Oct. 20^th.

When I awakened this morning, it was daylight and there was a cold wind blowing form the northeast-a fine morning for hunting deer, but that “still small voice” within said, “don’t go.”  I considered a moment.  We were without water and had to move camp this morning-how far I did not know- perhaps entirely out of the reach of hunting ground.  I felt it was a good chance to kill a deer, so argued conscience down, awakened Lee, and started out.  I had gone a mile and a half, perhaps, when, not fifty yards away stood a deer in a little opening looking at me.  I knew it would not stand five seconds longer, so I cocked my rifle and set that same set trigger, having on that same bungle some glove which I had vowed never to hunt with again.  If I ever touched the trigger, I didn’t know it, but as I raised my gun it fired-accidentally- and away went the second deer I had lost by reason of that darned treacherous set trigger.  Thoroughly disgusted, I returned to camp, found Lee still in bed, where I ought to have been.

We got breakfast and, not wanting to go to Rock Springs on Sunday, moved about two miles off the road where I had found a pool of water, and camped to remain until tomorrow, although we are out of lard.

A certain little widow asked Lee to bring her a live deer, and he has spent the afternoon practicing throwing a rope on old Red.  I have entertained myself reading “the Song of the Bell”, “Hero and Lender”, and “Utopia”.  I hunted the good little Book Lute put in for us to read to read but could find it nowhere.  I think Lee must have traded it off for chewing gun in Juno.

Upon the theory that two wrongs make a right, we went out this evening to take a Sunday evening stroll (?) – got a shot at a deer 250 yards, thinking it was only 150, and knocked up dirt under it’s feet.  I never had such bad luck in my life as I have had on this trip, and I have resolved not to work or hunt any more on Sunday unless “the sheep is in the ditch” sure enough.

As we are going into Rock Springs tomorrow, I will conclude the day by writing to Santa Anna, the only devotional service of the day.

Monday, Oct. 21^st.

We took our morning hunt, decided there was not but one old doe and two measley fawns in that country, hitched up and pulled across the country about two miles to a road leading to Rock Springs, that city having been our objective point for some days.  On nearing the place, we learned that it was on top of the ridge and about twelve miles from water (except in wells) and we wondered why it was named Rock Springs.  After we got there, having gone over as rough a road as was ever traveled, and saw the town, we then wondered why it was ever named at all.  We could not get water in the town for our horses, and after buying some lard, a box of tacks, and a lantern wick, we left it as fast as we could to get anywhere, we didn’t care much where.  We drove about a mile on the road toward Kerrville, watered our horses at a windmill, and drove on.  We had gone about two miles form town, and had a wreck.  We heard a creaking sound, very grating to the ears, one wheel seemed to be running away off to the right of the bed.  I got out and looked under the hack and saw a sight most obnoxious to the eye.  In continually jolting over the rocks, three or four bolts had worn in two, the bed had come loose from the hind spring, and the spring had come all to pieces, but fortunately, was not broke.  We took out, Lee went back to town after some bolts, I went to work getting things ready for repairs, screwing up other taps, etc. and in about three hours, we were ready for traveling again.  The sun was about an hour and a half high, and we had about eight or ten miles to go to get to water.  We went seven miles out the Kerrville road, took a dim left hand, which was supposed to lead to a windmill some three miles away.  Dark came and the rocks continued compelling us to drive in a slow walk, and after losing the road a time or two came in sight of the welcome glare of a camp fire and a windmill, the one presided over, and the other owned by an old bachelor, by the name of Anderson, who was just beginning to improve his place.  It is said that a “fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind”, and this old bachelor verified the adage.  He helped water our horse, brought us a chunk of fire and helped get wood, and on learning that we had some more repairing to do on our hack, told us if there was anything about his camp we needed, to take it along.

We have not seen any blue quail since we came east of Devil’s River, but there are thousands of the brown mountain quail, and we seldom want for birds.  We had them for supper, talked a long while with Anderson, and had some music (having brought a guitar, flute, and harp along) and retired as happy as if no mishap had ever befallen us.

Tuesday, Oct. 22^nd.

Just before retiring last night, we were talking and conjecturing about the origin of the common Mexican we so frequently see in this country, and of course drifted back to the days of Montezuma, and from that gradually passed into Dreamland.  In my dreams I found, silver mounted and sparkling with jewels-buckles, sword, shield, dagger, and all the other accoutrements of warfare necessary to equip in princely style a barbarian hero.  I was picking them up, one by one, and admiring their artistic design and matchless beauty, when a little ways apart, for the first time, I saw a princely looking youth, of olive complexion, black disheveled hair, lithe athletic figure, fine features-a perfect type of manly beauty-just arousing from a drunken stupor.  My admiration for the man was as great as for his equipments.  He told me his name was Huolpa, to which I replied, “I thought so,” and entered into conversation with him, thinking nothing strange of being associated with the princely hero of more than four hundred years past, or that he could, as intelligently as I, converse in the present English.  Strange is the phenomena of dreams!

We slept late, got up and killed a mess of quail for breakfast, ate and went to work finishing repairs, in which we availed ourselves of the kind offer of our newly made friend; got a hand saw and a stick of timber, and finished up about noon.  It being too late to make our next drive with ease and comfort, we decided to not break camp till tomorrow, being the first time we have stayed two nights in the same place since we have been out.

Lee and Anderson took the shot guns and went to kill some quail for dinner while I lounged around camp, having awakened this morning with a very disagreeable catch in my right shoulder.  In a little while they brought back nine quail, and we spread a big dinner with Anderson for guest.

Late in the evening we went out for deer, little expecting to see any.  I hadn’t gone half a mile when I jumped a big buck, which ran off about 300 yards and then stopped and looked at me.  I knew it was useless to try and get closer, so raising my sights to 300 yards, I took a shot at him, and he took two bounds and was the ridge out of my sight and I saw him no more.  I continued to hunt until it was too late to see my sights and then started to camp, missed my bearings and forgot (?) where camp was, and didn’t exactly recall it’s exact location until about an hour after dark—After I had almost decided to spend the night in the mountains with the wild cats.  Lee had lost his bearings also and beat me into camp about ten minutes-reported having seen two small deer and having shot at my old buck at nearly dark, but no venison.  We were tired and retired.

Wednesday, Oct. 23^rd.

We expected to get up early this morning, and be out after our old buck by daylight, but overslept ourselves and didn’t awaken until about 7:00 o’clock; but as it was cloudy and the wind was blowing pretty cool from the north, we took a hunt, anyway.  We went out up two separate draws of Live Oak (the main draw we are on) to the top of the divide, and found ourselves on the extreme divide between the head draws of South Llano and the Nueces, and returned to camp about 11:00 o’clock-again to late to make our next drive with ease and concluded to try one more night in the same camp, neither of us having seen anything big enough to shoot at.

In the afternoon, we took the shot guns and went out to kill some quail before time to go hunting.  The first shot Lee made, he scared up an old buck, which came tearing out through the brush in about 60 yards of me, and I had bird shot in my gun.  After I got Lee to camp, we took our Winchesters and old Red and tried slow trailing.  We followed the buck until we were wet with perspiration and famished with thirst.  Lee had a rope on old Red, and was holding him back so we could keep up, and I tried to stay about a hundred yards off to one side, so in case we jumped him, I could get a good running shot.  Every time the trail turned it would turn to the left, giving me from 100 yards upward farther to travel.  I curved with them until about an hour by sun, when they curved again, and I went straight up a draw to the ridge where I could see both ways-thinking maybe I would head him off.  While standing there watching, I saw a yearling deer across the canon-about 500 yards on a very brushy point.  I slipped over there and spent until dark slipping around in the brush hunting for him-but never found him.  Lee and old Red came to me at this place, a little before dark, and we proceeded to camp, tired and almost disgusted-resolved to make one more hunt in the morning and then pull out.

Thursday, Oct. 24^th.

We did go hunting this morning and saw nothing, returned to camp and cooked the last of our flour, our meat, baking powder, and almost everything else we had, except a box of matches and a part of a box of axle grease.

We left cam about 10:00 o’clock headed toward Junction City, about 45 miles distant; not expecting however to get there for three or four days.  Coming in a S.E. E. direction, and after bidding our friend Andersons goodbye-a married brother to our old bachelor having turned up while we were in this last camp-struck the Sonora and Kerrville road near the 67 mile rock from Kerrville and near the ranch of Dr. Pippin,-followed the road toward Kerrville some six miles to Wiley Anderson’s ranch, and there took left hand him road turning toward South Llano at the mouth of Big Paint Creek.  Having filled our kegs at Wiley Anderson’s, we drove on about four miles and made a dry camp in what we took to be-from general appearances-a good deer country, having been told there was not another ranch for twelve miles.  We started out to see if we could kill a deer, and to our disgust, found ourselves in the middle of a sheep range, with every bush stripped of acorns, rendering it altogether impossible that there was a deer in five miles, for they won’t stay in a sheep range.  On taking an invoice of our culinary department, we find that we have a few potatoes and some meal we brought along to fry fish in (and haven’t used a bit) to run us till we get to Junction City.  We made a hearty supper on some cold bread we had left, and baked potatoes.  We deem it more compatible with our health (?) just at present, then the character of food we have been eating.  Strange to say, yet another proof that our evil star is in the ascendancy, since we have been out of everything else, we can’t find a quail, a species of game we have always had to throw away.

Friday, Oct. 25^th.

We broke camp early, continuing our course toward the mouth of Big Paid, over as rough a road as one would care to travel, the canons growing deeper and the mountains higher as we neared the breaks of South Llano.  We struck Big Point about two miles above its mouth, and a beautiful stream it is.  The first place we struck it, was just above Taylor’s ranch-there it was perhaps fifty yards wide with slick rock bottom, and from three to eight inches deep.  A little lower, it ran into a deep narrow pool, and from thence over a beautiful falls of some eight or ten feet, and so on, ever changing in appearance until it loses its identity by merging into the South Llano.  The stream runs at the foot of high and frequently overhanging chalky cliffs, alternately on either side, necessitating, in the two miles we went down the stream, the crossing of it, four times.  We could see great schools of various kinds of fish in its clear, limpid waters, and tried shooting them, but found they were deeper than they looked.  We reached its junction with the South Llano about 11:00 o’clock and stopped for noon, caught a mess of trout in a few minutes, with frogs for bait.

I tried making corn bread for the first time this morning, made a failure, and vowed I would not try it any more.  We had to eat it with a spoon.  Lee wouldn’t either, so we dined on fried potatoes alone and brought the fish with us for supper.

South Llano is very much like North Llano, already described; only it flows more water and the bordering mountains are higher and more picturesque.  The picturesqueness of Big Point continues on down the South Llano as far as Junction City.  There being no grass on the river, and being out of provisions as well as horse feed, we drove on down to Junction City, crossing South Llano nine times.

At Junction City we struck, for the first time, our out going trail, and are now camped at the junction of North and South Llano, with nine hooks set, named after as many girls.  I named a line set in the best place, with two hooks on it, Minnie.  I wanted two chances.  If the fish bite here like they did at mouth of Big Point, we will have plenty of fish in the morning.

We took a good bath in the river, and it was as cold as ice, and “dressed up”.  In rummaging through our possessions, I found that “good little book” Lutie sent along for us to read, and I laid it aside to read Sunday.  I owe Lee an apology for suspecting that he traded it off.

Saturday, Oct. 26.

We did not catch any fish-the names we gave the hooks were too much form them-even the two choice ones.

We hitched up about 8:00 o’clock this morning and started down the road toward London-went about four miles, took a left hand, going through a gate opening into Wilson’s pasture, and traveled three or four miles further-westwardly-and again struck camp for the balance of the day and night, on Gentry Creek.  About 1:00 o’clock this afternoon, we took our Winchesters and started up the creek on a prospecting tour.  We went about a mile and half together, and then separated-Lee going on the north side of the creek and I on the south side.  I heard Lee shoot three times and I stopped on a little rise in about forty yards of the creek, thinking perhaps his game might come my way.  I waited a few minutes and a bunch of turkeys came up the bank of the creek.  I fired into them killing one and wounding another the first shot, and killed another the second shot.  I then found myself two miles from camp, on a straight line, and four miles the way I expected to go back, with two dead gabblers on my hands.  After some hesitation, I tied their heads together and continued my round, returning to camp just at dark with my trophies and a crick in my shoulder, without having seen a deer.  On looking around camp, I saw that Lee had been in, got Nig and Old Red, and inferred that he had wounded a deer. He             about 9:00 o’clock at night, reporting a coon dead, and a big buck wounded, bringing a               it to prove the latter.  He trailed it with old Red for about two miles decided he was not very badly hurt, and had to return without him.

I had turkey breast fried for supper when he returned, and made him believe it was the loin of a deer, and then came near never convincing him that I had lied.  That would up the events of the day.

Sunday, Oct. 27^th.

We moved camp this morning two miles further up Gentry Creek, and located ourselves on the south side of a thicket for protection from the north wind, which blew up this morning about 7:00 o’clock.

We moved early and spent the morning in camp.  The evening was spent reading “the good little Book”-that is, I read it-Lee didn’t-and looking over the Llano Times of date the 3^rd, inst. which we took from the post office Friday evening.  Growing weary of inactivity, and lonesome, we took a stroll (?) this afternoon, and took our guns along for protection (?) against wild beasts.  I was so enraptured with the pure atmosphere and enchanting scenery, that sundown caught me two miles from camp, on the head of a canon, looking for deer tracks.  I got in a little after dark and Lee didn’t get in until an hour later.  He got lost again and had to shoot for camp.  The sheep being in the ditch, I answered him. I strongly suspect he transgressed and hunted a little, and getting lost was a judgment sent on him.

We have had turkey the last four meals, and I want venison, am going out in the morning after deer and if I fail on that will again pay my respects to the turkeys.

Lee is asleep and snoring, and I will be in about five minutes, but before submitting myself to the embrace of Morpheus, must record another mishap and thus swell the category of misfortunes.  Our bed caught fire, and on hold a fire inquest, found that I was the sole sufferer, having two or three quilts burnt, and three or four holes in my pillow, while nothing of Lee’s was scorched, though our beds were made together.

Monday, Oct. 28^th.

We arose at daybreak, shook off our drowsiness, and started to the mountains, Lee going north, and I, south.  Just as I reached the top of the mountain a mile from camp, it began to sprinkle rain, and the clouds seemed to be marshalling their hosts for a general flood, and as everything was out, I returned to camp to stretch the sheet and tent.  About five minutes after I got there, here came Lee or the same purpose.  The morning hunt, was about to be lost to both of us, so I told Lee to go ahead and make his hunt, and I would arrange things around camp and fix for the rain.  About the time everything was fixed, and I had settled down to the quiet enjoyment of an hour of “sweet repose” up road two men; the spokesman very gruffly asked me forty questions or more, about our movements, and then in a rough ungentlemanly manner ordered us out of the pasture, to which I replied, “You can go to H—l.”  He told me his name was Wilson and was in charge of the pasture-in a little more subdued tone of voice- that he cared nothing about the game, but had had a great deal of trouble about people coming in, and failing to get game, hauling out a load of beef.  I was just about to “fire up” again, when he very opportunely added that they were different looking people to us.  By this time, he was talking like one gentleman should talk to another, and then I softened down, too, and told him he need not go to h—l, that we should make a turkey hunt tonight, and would leave tomorrow; he consented, and we parted, each having a greater degree of respect for the other than when we met five minutes before.

Lee got in about 9:00 o’clock, not having seen anything.  We are not going to make any more deer hunts, but concluded to rest up and go turkey hunting tonight.

It rained a slow, cold, drizzly rain all day.  We wouldn’t go turkey hunting in the day time, when we might have been successful, but saved ourselves for a good old time, Clear Fork, night turkey hunt.  I told Lee that unless the moon was shining very brightly, it would be difficult to see a turkey at roost, on account of the dense foliage.  As luck wouldn’t have it, it was very cloudy and drizzling rain, but we started out a little after dark and found my prophesy true.  The foliage was so dense and the clouds were so heave, the only way we could tell a turkey from the rest of the darkness was when it flew.  We retuned with our usual disappointment, but in no wise discouraged, resolved to get up at daylight, and try it again.  We retired and fell to sleep listening to the dreary fall of the rain on our wigwam.

Tuesday, Oct. 29^th.

I awakened at the proper hour, awakened Lee, who grunted, tuned over, and fell to sleep again.  I took my shot gun, leaving him to his quiet repose, and took a round, learning that our hunt the night before had served the purpose of running all the turkeys to the mountains, when I was expecting to find them on the creek.  I returned about 8:00 o’clock without spoil, and found Lee had just gotten up and gone after the horses.  There is an unwritten law, observed between us, to the effect that when one is out and the other remains in camp, for the one remaining to have the meal that is due, ready.  Lee hated like everything to bring water, and usually drains the bucket, and then does without until there is water in the bucket again; so I concluded to play a trick on him.  I found that by draining the bucket and canteens, there was just about enough to get breakfast and leave the dishes unwashed.  I poured the water out of the bucket and drained the canteens, and set down by the fire to dry out.  Lee returned with the horses, picked up the coffee pot, started to make coffee, went to the bucket rattled it, and then went to the canteens and shook them, then suggested that we didn’t have any coffee.  I told him I wanted some very much, and with a perplexed, doleful look, he picked up the bucket and started to the creek, about two hundred yards away, through the rain and mud, muttering that when he started after the horses, he thought there was water in camp.  By this time, I was convulsed with laughter, told him the trick to which he responded with a dry grin, and then went on after the water.

We finished breakfast, packed up, and, according to the promise made our friend (?) Wilson, moved out.  We drove back into the Junction City and Mason road, and headed for London, which place we reached about 3:00 o’clock P.M.-wet and chilled to the bone-having driven facing a cold, drizzly rain all the way.  It must have been just such a day that Longfellow had in mind when he wrote his famous poem.  We camped in a pasture nearby the city (?) and, as it continued to rain, stretched our wigwaghm-(I reckon that is the way to spell it, if not, it will be found correctly spelled elsewhere,) fed and hoppled our horses and went to the Lewis Hotel, and engaged board until it quit raining, expecting to have a good time in a house by a warm fire, listening to the sigh of the wind and patter of the rain.  Imagine our discomforture when we were      into a cold, bare room, with the doors and windows thrown wide open for light, with no fire in it, and no place to put one.  Our teeth had been chattering for some hours and it was with the greatest difficulty we kept those members quiet.  Miss Lewis came in, having met her before, and apologized for not having put up stove, etc.  We told her we were not cold, which was a darned lie, and sat down-in her presence- and walked the floor in her absence-to wait for supper, the announcement of which we looked forward to with great anticipation.  After several intervals of sittings and walkings, the announcement was made, and we started in to supper.  I was then only wet from my ankles down, and from my waist up, but, to my great discomfiture, I was sat down in a chair that either been just brought in out of the rain, or had a bucket of water turned over it, which made complete connection between my two former wet streaks.  About the time we were beginning to make some progress on the –I must say-good supper that was spread before us, in came four ’toughs” with all the noise and senseless jabber of their class, and taking us for drummers, against whom they have a dislike, seemed a little disposed to “guy” us.  I was going to humor them, but for some reason or other, didn’t act my role just right, and they soon lapsed into silence and quietly finished their supper and walked away.

After supper, not having gained any perceptible warmth from the hearty supper I had eaten, I left Lee taking to Miss Lewis, and went out in the rain to find some place of warmth, or to freeze to death at once, I didn’t care much which.  I walked up the street (?) some two hundred yards and heard a boisterous noise coming from a shanty by the way side, looked in, saw my crowd of “toughs”, a pool table, a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and a red hot stove, so I went in, dried off, thawed out, and was comfortable again.  My “toughs” treated me very courteously and I lingered until about bed time, returned to the hotel, found Lee still talking to Miss Lewis, and so cold he was purple around the mouth.  We soon retired-had a nice, clean bed-but Lee would persist in putting his cold feet to my warm ones, and we were soon wooed by sleep-“sweet, blamy sleep”-into forgetfulness of our day’s discomfiture.

Wednesday, Oct. 30^th.

On awakening this morning, we found that it was still raining, so we lay in bed until the breakfast bell rang.  After breakfast, the sun shined out and we walked out to the camp to spread our effects, which were nearly all more or less wet.  Almost by the time we got there, the sun was hidden again, but no immediate indication of rain.  We proceeded to “spread”, clean our guns, etc, when Lee      and went back to talk to Miss Lewis.

I forgot to mention that I had to patch up my “Sunday pants” last night with pins, before going to the hotel, which caused me no little inconvenience by the pins working loose, and the pins invariably sticking inward.  I proceeded to correct this trouble, wondering all the time how girls could dress, using so many pins, and have so few “fainty” spells.  Hereafter, should I see a girl grow “fainty”, my heart will go out to her in sympathy, imagining a pin stuck to the head in some sensitive spot.  Well, as I said, I proceeded to correct the trouble, broke the only needle I had trying to push it through where an awl could not be driven.  I could not endure the torture of the pins any longer, so took some small cupper wire we had along, used it for a needle and thread, and with the little end of a file for an awl, preceded, shoemaker fashion, to make the necessary repairs.  When it was done, I viewed the work with a degree of satisfaction, notwithstanding the ghastly grin the seam had when slightly pulled apart.  I found one advantage in sewing in this way as the thread wouldn’t break or the needle come unthreaded and while the work was not very pretty, it was “awful good.”

We learned here that on passing up, we were taken for a “Show” by some parties back on the road and several came in to see the performance at night.  Another party took us for Englishmen, being “diked out” in our hunting suits; another thought we were drummers, while still another took us for an evangelist and his chief singer, but Wilson-“darn him”,-took us for thieves.

It being noon by the time I had finished my work, I “dressed for dinner”, by putting on my pants went down, and found Lee still talking to the girl.  Having decided to get home on the 2^nd of November, we concluded to remain here till tomorrow and lighten our load by the process of drying, so I wrote to Minnie while Lee talked to “the girl”.

We decided to stay in London another night.  The afternoon was passed without event worth recording.  We ate and slept at the hotel.

Thursday, Oct. 31^st.

The morning was still gloomy and a light mist falling at intervals, but we hitched up about 9:00 o’clock, had to whip Matillo for the first time on the trip, paid our bill which was only $3.00-about one-half as much as we expected.  I don’t know whether Lee’s protracted smiles on the girl had anything to do with it or not.

We killed enough birds for dinner-nooned about 2:00 o’clock P. M. near Honey Creek, five miles from Mason, stopped about two hours, drove on to Cooksville, bought feed for our horses and filled our water kegs, passed through Mason about dusk, and camped five miles east of Mason, with Llano as our objective point.

It remained cloudy all day, with a cold north wind blowing, until about 4:00 o’clock this afternoon the sun came out for just a moment, as bright and beautiful as a lover’s smile.

Yesterday, we didn’t expect to go into Llano until Saturday night, but the nearer we get, the less disposed we are to loiter and we catch ourselves driving faster than usual.

In driving along the road, we have a standing bet of a “treat” on every shot fired from the hack while in motion, and the bird to be “on the wing” unless it is a great distance from the road.  I am now eight treats ahead.  He bets that he kills and I miss, and I bet that I kill and he misses.

Friday, Nov. 1^st.

We were within thirty miles of home, and while we had made up our minds to get home on the 2^nd, we caught ourselves getting up early and rushing around to get an early start.  We drove to Hickory Creek, within ten miles from Llano and nooned, spread out our effects to dry, preparatory to a separation.  Having lots of ammunition left, we bombarded the woods in competitive shooting, cleaned our guns, separated our effects, loaded up, and Lee went after the horses.  He was accustomed to unhopple Nig and ride Matillo in, and let Nig follow.  Nig was so near home, he felt a little independent and wouldn’t follow, and when Lee started back after him he (Nig) curled his tail and started for home.  Lee got on Matillo and gave chase, getting him back just in time to get hitched up by sundown.  All that was done during the day was by a tacit and not by a definite understanding.  The fact is, we were both so anxious to get home, we couldn’t loiter until the morrow, and we were looking so “tough” we thought –never said- it would be a good scheme to go in under the friendly protection of night; so we went, killing civet cat on the way, reaching home about 10:00 o’clock at night.  After all “there is no place like home.”

Portion of Texas Map 1917 from the New Encyclopedic Atlas and Gazetteer of the World 1917.

Courtesy of the University of Texas Libraries, The University of Texas at Austin

From reference in the Diary the author made about his sister Lute and his girl Minnie, the deduction has been made that the author may have been J. H. McLean.  Mr. McLean married Minnie Buttton in 1896 and his sister Lute married George Watkins in 1896.  More information may be found in Llano County Family Album: A History.

Lee Barler is the son of Miles Barler and Jane Buttery