Across The Fence: The Solomon River Stampede

I have often tried to stop a spooked cow from high tailing across the pasture in a direction opposite of that which I intended.

This maneuver has often resulted in a cross-pasture race between horse and cow or, if not horseback, a sudden and painful introduction to a hard-headed bovine and a dusty patch of ground.

I learned early on that I could not physically restrain a thousand pounds of bellering, slobbering beef, though I would continue to unsuccessfully try. Therefore, I can only imagine what it must have been like to attempt to stop an entire herd in their panic-blinded flight.

I'm reasonably certain that there no longer remain among us any of the old-time cowboys who witnessed a full-scale cattle stampede. However, if there are any within the range of this readership I would certainly relish the honor of recording their story. Although depicted on canvass by several famous western artists, I have never seen a photograph.

I'm assuming therefore that William Henry Jackson was never present at an actual stampede and that a little Brownie box camera was not among the stash of supplies tucked away in the outfit's chuck wagon. The historical records of these events have been left in the written stories of the old trail drivers and on the canvases of artists whose interpretations of those stories have been vividly depicted.

Texas writer J. Frank Dobie recorded stories from John Young, an early open-range cowboy and Andy Adams, a Texas cowboy, who trailed cattle during the early drives, each have left behind written, first hand accounts of the adventure, confusion and extreme danger of the dreaded stampede. My first book of Western Americana was "The Log of a Cowboy" by Andy Adams followed shortly by Dobie's "A Vaquero of the Brush Country."

One of the most often recorded stories was of the stampede on the Solomon River just north of the infamous cow town of Abilene, Kan. No doubt the story has been told countless times due to the fact that several herds and dozens of trail hands were involved in what is told to have been the largest single stampede to have ever occurred.

In the 1870s, the old Chisholm Trail came out of Texas and made its way north until it arrived in Abilene. There, the herds were often held until rail shipment was arranged or until delivery was made to the new owners. I have read, that at times on the open prairie south of Abilene, dozens of campfires could be seen scattered across the plains where Texas trail drivers held their herds.

In the early spring of 1876, there were just over a half-dozen camps holding their large herds of Texas Longhorns as they awaited delivery. Among those herds was one of about 2,800 cattle under the care of trail boss J. W. Simpson. In all, omore than 20,000 trail weary cattle and nearly 100 cowboys were camped within a few miles of Abilene.

Toward evening, riders circled the herds as the cattle began to bed down for the night. The weather was calm although unseasonably warm and humid and the sky was clear as it turned a deep blue above the spreading crimson sunset. The cowboys in camp had spread their bedrolls and slumbered easily as they waited their turn on guard. Just before midnight one of the night herders in Simpsons crew rode into camp with word that a storm was brewing off to the west. Simpson called for all hands to saddle up and take their positions around the herd.

In the other half-dozen camps similar orders were given. As the bands of cowboys saddled their ponies and watched the skies, the cattle had already begun to come off the bed ground and mill restlessly about. In the distance, soft rumblings of thunder could be heard as lightening flickered among billowing thunderheads. Before the crews were all ready and mounted an enormous bolt of lightening lit the entire prairie and pitch-blackness turned to brilliant daylight for brief seconds. Even before the resulting thunderclap was heard, 20,000 cattle bolted in panic as they scattered in all directions. And now, the cowboys most dangerous and demanding job was at hand. Each man would ride alongside the herd in an attempt to reach the lead cattle and turn them into a "mil" that would drive the leads back and around into the main body of the herd and eventually slow them down. Turning the herd into the milling circle would stop the headlong stampede and give the cowboys a chance to surround and contain the herd.

As the storm approached the damp air was filled with static electricity. St. Elmo's fire danced between the ears of ponies and flickered as its blue-white fire arced between the five-foot spread of horn tips on the wild-eyed Texas longhorns. Sizzling charges of static zigzagged down the backs of the frenzied cattle and flashed in the windblown manes of the fleet-footed ponies.

In the pitch darkness nothing could be seen until the dreaded lightening would flash. Only in those brief moments of light could the cowboys determine what progress, if any, was being made. The huge numbers of cattle had broken into dozens of smaller herds. Some cowboys would find themselves riding alongside only a handful of cattle while others might be trying to turn several hundred. It seemed that none of the cattle ran in the same direction. As one group might begin to be contained, another would thunder out of the darkness and slam into their sides knocking them to the ground and the panicked cattle would regain their feet and once again charge headlong into the night.

It seemed as though the lightening was everywhere. Believing that lightening was attracted to heat and iron, some cowboys flung off the heavy slickers that covered their sweat drenched bodies, kicked off their spurs and even threw their revolvers away. As the panic and chaos continued even the sound of the thunder was covered by the earth trembling pounding of hooves. Shouts could not be heard above the din and pistol shots, fired near the heads of the lead cattle were soundless flashes of fire. Some cowboys rode so near the leads, and fired so close to their heads that the powder flames scorched the hair on the cow's cheek.

Then came the rain. Torrents soaked men and cattle and horses and came in sheets like heavy curtains of water. Dry prairie ground turned to slick soup, more treacherous than an ice covered stream. Horses and riders slipped and stumbled in the paths of the onrushing cattle while those men still horseback continued to stretch the limits of determination as they strove to stop the wild rush of beef.

The cattle ran the entire night as the Kansas thunderstorm moved eastward. It was coming daylight when John Young, one of Simpson's cowboys, found himself riding alongside a herd of about 800 steers. On the other side of the small herd rode a cowboy from another outfit, a stranger to Young. Young urged his pony forward in a final burst of speed and waved his slicker in the faces of the lead steers finally slowing them to a manageable pace. The cattle in the rear slammed into those ahead as they bunched and at last came to a standstill.

Herding the bunch back to the camps, Young discovered that the group he and the other cowboy had gathered contained cattle from four or five different herds. In all, nearly all of the 20,000 cattle were mixed. It took five days to gather up the scattered herds and sort them into their respective groups of ownership. After the sorting was done, another squall scattered the herds again and near half the work had to be redone. After that, the herds were "spoiled" and were exceedingly difficult to manage, spooking at the slightest provocation. Finally Simpson received word to deliver his herd further north on the Platte. The skittish herd continued to cause problems and Simpson was relieved to turn them over at the end of the drive.

The trail drives were definitely no "Sunday picnic" and according to stories of the old trail drivers, stampedes were fairly common occurrences in those days and were a dreaded part of every drive. Many runs ended in the tragic loss of a heroic puncher and the unfortunate maiming of horses and cattle.

But, from the stories and first-hand accounts that I have read, none surpasses the magnitude of the great Solomon River stampede.

M. Timothy Nolting is an award-winning Nebraska columnist and freelance writer. Contact Tim via email at [email protected].