Ghosts of the Plains

When I was a kid I used to love to hunt for arrowheads on my grandfather's farm. His "home" place was located on Runningwater Draw. There was evidence of a major encampment in a meander in the draw (a draw is similar to a creek but has water only seasonally). Occasionally I would find "perfect" points, but most of the time they were broken pieces. There also were a few small pot shards.

Runningwater Draw was one of the major roads for the Comancheros that came out of New Mexico to trade with the Kiowa and Comanche tribes on the plains. During the chaos of the "War of Northern Aggression" (Civil war for you non-southerners), the Comanche tribes pushed back the Texas frontier through aggressive raiding of the few brave pioneers settling westward toward the plains. They would take captives in their raids and then trade them as slaves to the Comancheros to be sold in New Mexico. Ransom Canyon, near Lubbock, Texas, was one of the primary rendezvous points for these trades.

In my earliest years, as I hunted for the arrowheads, my imagination would run wild. I would think of myself as the lone cowboy attacked by a whooping band of Indians racing their colorful ponies across the Plains. Such ideas were shaped by watching Roy Rogers on early Saturday morning television. He was my hero growing up. From what I know of him now, he probably was a fairly worthy hero -- not like the sports figures and actors of today.

Some years ago, I wrote the following poem:

Ghosts of the Plains

Out on the wild prairie where tumbleweeds roll

and the dust-devils play in the sun,

There rode a young cowboy all hell-bent for leather,

and high in his hand was a gun.

The shimmering heat made him look like a specter

as he came flying over a rise.

The cloud of his dust looked just like a smudge

on the blue of the West Texas skies.

Suddenly, behind him there rose a wild band

of Kiowas quick on his heel.

The arrows were flying, the horse fell to earth,

and fear rent the air from his squeal.

The valiant young cowboy lay down 'hind his mount

and thunder spoke forth from his gun.

His Colt took a toll on the redskins that day

as they fell 'neath the hot Texas sun.

With blood streaming down he fought to the last

while the sun slowly sank from the sky.

When the fiery orb painted dark red the horizon

both day and young cowboy did die.

So were the dreams of my youth as I hunted

for arrowheads out on the Draw.

With visions so vivid I touched each found point;

It could only be ghosts that I saw.

Trails and Travel

Historic trails have always interested me. As a child, when we crossed the Chisholm Trail, I expected to see a well-worn and clearly defined path. It was many years before I realized that virtually all traces of the trail had been plowed under, or grown over for years.

This morning I awoke in North Platte, Nebraska. North Platte lies on the great westward immigrant routes of the Oregon Trail, the California Trail, the Mormon Trail, The Pony Express Trail, and the first trans-continental railroad. It also lies not far east of one of the more important cattle trails -- the Texas and Ogalalla Trail, aka Texas and Montana Trail, aka Dodge City and Montana Trail (the one they supposedly followed in "Lonesome Dove"). Today as I travelled south from Nebraska, I basically followed the route of this important cattle trail of the late 1800's.

It is approximately 270 miles from North Platte to Dodge City. I took the most direct route, which is also one of the least travelled routes. South of Oberlin, KS, I took Kansas Highway 23 south into Cimarron, KS, (which lies on the old Santa Fe Trail and is basically where the Cimarron Cutoff branched from the main trail) and then into Dodge City from the west. Of course, Dodge City lies on the Santa Fe Trail and was one of the most important delivery points for cattle moving north from Texas on the Western Trail.

Dodge City was important for the Texas Panhandle in its formative years. The buffalo hunters that eventually wiped out the great herds that roamed the Southern Plains used Dodge City as their outfitting and "jumping off" point. It was the place they brought the hides from the slaughtered buffalo for shipment east. It was also the place to which the bleached bones of the buffalo were delivered some years later for eventual grinding into fertilizer.

When settlers began moving into the Texas Panhandle, many of them arrived first in Dodge City to purchase wagons and supplies for the trip south. For several years, it was the "jumping off" point to the frontier that until 1876 had been the home to the Kiowa and Comanche tribes.

It is interesting to me how few people I saw on the highway as I headed south toward Dodge City. I passed through several small towns, including Gove, KS, the county seat of Gove County, with a population of only 105 people. There were many highway stretches of over 10 miles in which I did not meet another vehicle.

Much of the land that I passed through is in grassland with cattle grazing on it. The early spring rains have been good and the grass is beginning to green. The few areas that were in cultivation had beautiful stands of winter wheat that are nearing the stage when they will shoot up the head of grain. It is beautiful country to one with a Plainsman's eye. I suppose to most people it would be considered pretty barren. I for one, relish the emptiness. I need my space.