A Cow Hunter’s Court

By Edgar Beecher Bronson in 1910

The passing of Shanghai Rhett in Llano, Texas, marked the diminishing of an era, the decline of the pioneer Texas cow hunter. In its genesis, cow hunting wasn’t just an occupation; it was the cornerstone upon which many of Texas’s most substantial fortunes were built. This endeavor gave rise to the immense cattle ranching industry, a period of economic boom from 1866 to 1885 that transformed the untamed grasses of the vast, sparsely populated plains and mountains of Texas, New Mexico, Indian Territory (present-day Oklahoma), Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, Dakota (North and South Dakota), and Montana into veritable gold mines.

The economic impact of this massive industrial movement on the settlement and development of the Western region, stretching between the 98th and 120th meridians and encompassing half of the United States’ total landmass, is often underestimated by those who didn’t witness its inception and progression firsthand. Without a doubt, the ranching industry accelerated the occupation and settlement of the Great Plains by at least three decades.

During that era, agriculture in these remote territories was simply not viable. Distant from railways, uncharted, and largely unexplored by white settlers, these lands were under the dominion of hostile Native American tribes. Isolated farming communities, with widely dispersed homesteads, would have been defenseless against their attacks. Moreover, there was no established market or transportation infrastructure for farmers to sell their produce. The Texas cow hunters were instrumental in changing these circumstances, accomplishing this transformation in just over a decade.

Texas became the breeding ground for the leaders and the rank and file of this vast army of cow hunters, destined to become the pioneers of this expansive region. From their earliest years, pistols and knives were their cherished playthings. They were accustomed to enduring hardship and danger. They were highly skilled horsemen, experienced Indian fighters, and were indifferent to death, yet calculating in its defense. These attributes made them an ideal group for the pacification of the Plains. The death of Shanghai Rhett signified the disappearance of one of the few remaining figures from this fascinating and historically significant past. He was one of the last links to the old west and its rugged individualism.

In post-Civil War Texas, when Shanghai Rhett was a young man, the basic requirements for acquiring wealth were a pony, a lariat, a six-shooter, and a branding iron. While a trained eye and a steady hand were crucial for effectively using a pistol and lariat, the branding iron was a more straightforward tool. Although it was an essential piece of equipment, it played a secondary role. The pistol was used to resolve contentious title issues; the horse and lariat were used to take possession once ownership was established; and the iron was used to mark the property with a symbol of ownership. This property invariably consisted of cattle. The era of the cow hunter’s court was defined by these rudimentary tools and the lawless spirit of the time.

Before the Civil War, Texas had abundant cattle and few fences, so the cattle roamed freely across the hills and plains. To establish ownership, each owner adopted a distinct "mark and brand." The owner’s mark and brand were applied to young calves before they left their mothers, and to mature cattle when they were purchased. As a result, the hides of cattle that had changed hands multiple times were often covered with a chaotic record of their various transfers.

The practice of marking and branding originated with the Mexicans. Marking involved cutting the ears or some part of the animal’s hide in a distinctive way to create a permanent identification. For instance, one owner might adopt the "swallow fork," a V-shaped cut at the tip of the ear; another, the "crop," a straight cut across the tip of the ear; another, the "under-half crop," the lower half of the ear tip removed; another, the "over-half crop," the upper half removed; another, the "under-bit," a round notch cut in the lower edge of the ear; another, the "over-bit," a similar notch in the upper edge; another, the "under-slope," the lower half of the ear removed diagonally upward; another, the "over-slope," the upper half removed diagonally; another, the "grub," the ear cut off close to the head; another, the "wattle," a strip of hide, about an inch wide and two or three inches long, skinned and left hanging by one end on the forehead, shoulder, or quarters; another, the "dewlap," several inches of loose skin under the throat skinned and left hanging.

Branding, on the other hand, involved applying a red-hot iron to any part of the animal for six to eight seconds until the hide was seared. If done correctly, hair would never grow on the seared surface, and the animal would be "branded for life." A small five-inch brand on a young calf would become a noticeable 12-to-18-inch mark when the animal reached full size. In Mexico, branding dates back to a time when literacy was uncommon, and most people used a flourish instead of a written signature. Consequently, Mexican brands were typically intricate combinations of lines and circles, reflecting the owner’s individual preferences. In the United States, brands usually consisted of letters or numerals, though shapes and forms were also sometimes used. Branding and marking cattle and horses was a harsh practice, but under the old open-range system, where individual owners might have thousands of heads of cattle, it was the only way to establish ownership.

During the Civil War, these vast herds thrived and multiplied unattended, neglected by owners who were away fighting with the armies of the Confederacy. As a result, hundreds of thousands of cattle roamed the Texas plains after the war, unmarked and unbranded, as wild as the native game, and with no clear ownership. This situation created an opportunity that the hard-riding and desperate men who found themselves stranded on this remote frontier after the collapse of the Confederacy were quick to exploit. Shanghai Rhett was one of these men. They shifted their focus from chasing Federal soldiers to chasing unbranded steers, finding the latter occupation no less exciting and far more lucrative than the former.

Initially, bands of free companions rode together and pooled their earnings. However, the principles of thrift and improvidence soon came into play, setting the immutable laws of distribution in motion. Before long, a class of wealthy and influential individual owners emerged, employing large outfits of 10 to 50 men each, all splendidly mounted and armed. These outfits constantly moved camps and traveled light, without wagons or tents.

Due to the mild climate, even in winter, each man carried no more than two blankets for bedding. Cooking equipment was kept simple, consisting of a coffee pot, a frying pan, a stew kettle, and a Dutch oven. Each man carried a tin cup attached to his saddle. Plates, knives, and forks were considered unnecessary luxuries, as every man carried a bowie knife at his belt and was adept at using his slice of bread as a plate to hold whatever delicacy the frying pan or kettle might contain. Sometimes, even the Dutch oven was dispensed with, and bread was baked by wrapping thin rolls of dough around a stick and placing the stick in the ground, leaning over a bed of live coals. The frying pan was often left behind altogether, and the meat was roasted on a stick over the fire. No meat in the world was ever as delicious as a good, fatty side of ribs cooked in this way.

Wild, unbranded cattle were everywhere: in the cross-timbers of the Palo Pinto, in the hills and among the post oaks of the Concho and the Llano, on the broad savannas of the Lower Guadalupe and the Brazos Rivers, in the plains and mesquite thickets of the Nueces and the Frio. Ranging through these untamed regions, on the outer fringes of settlement, were the cow hunters, as cheerful and carefree a group as ever sought adventure, indifferent to the dangers that surrounded them.

The cow hunters had their fill of adventure and danger, dealing with both wild men and wild cattle. The Comanche and Kiowa, the original inhabitants of the region, bitterly contested every advance made by settlers along the entire frontier. No community, from Fort Griffin to San Antonio, was spared their attacks and depredations.

These incursions were often regular monthly occurrences, always carried out "in the light of the moon." A war party of naked warriors on bareback horses, among the most skilled and agile cavalry in the world, would stealthily approach an isolated ranch or lonely camp at night. The most cunning would dismount and silently stalk their prey. Slender, sinewy, bronze figures creeping and crouching like panthers, as clever as foxes, as fierce and merciless as enraged bulls, their presence was seldom detected until the attack was launched. Sometimes, they were content to steal the settlers’ horses and be miles away to the West or North by daylight. Other times, they set buildings on fire and shot down the inhabitants as they fled. Sometimes, they crept silently into camps, knifed or tomahawked one or more of the sleepers, and slipped away, so quietly that others sleeping nearby were undisturbed. On other occasions, they lay in ambush near a camp until dawn and then, with wild war-whoops, charged among the sleepers, wielding deadly arrows and tomahawks.

The cow hunter’s court and their lifestyle forced them to be ever vigilant against these cunning marauders. It was these same cow hunters that the Indians feared the most, for they were tireless trackers and utterly fearless in an attack. The Indians seldom got the better of them, except through ambush or overwhelming numbers. Better armed and with stronger hearts in a fair fight, small bands of these cow hunters often soundly defeated war parties that outnumbered them ten to one.

Collisions between rival outfits of cow hunters and disputes over territory or cattle were also common, leading to bitter feuds that were not resolved until one side or the other was killed off or driven out of the country. Major battles were fought more than once, resulting in the deaths of a score or more of men, all over a disagreement about the ownership of a brindle steer.

These men were a law unto themselves. Courts were few and far between on the edge of the settlements. Powder and lead were cheaper and more effective than attorneys’ fees. Thus, the rifle and pistol were almost always the cow hunters’ court of first and last resort for resolving disputes of every kind. Except in the rare instances where there were surviving family members of the original plaintiff and defendant, this form of litigation was never prolonged or tiresome. When there were survivors, the case was sure to be reargued.

Occasionally, a case would be brought to formal trial before a judge and jury in the established settlements. While the procedure of these courts generally adhered to the statutes and was formal enough, startling informalities sometimes characterized their sessions. One such case occurred in Llano, with Shang Rhett as the hero.

At that time, Llano boasted only one building, a large, rough stone house with loopholes for defense against Indian attacks. Under this single roof, the enterprising owner combined a variety of industries and performed numerous functions that would have overwhelmed even the most versatile person in a more established community. Here, he ran a general store, operated blacksmith and wheelwright shops, served as postmaster, ran a hotel, and sat as a justice of the peace. Indeed, he became so accustomed to self-reliance in all emergencies that he sometimes subjected himself to criticism by calmly sitting as both judge and jury in cases where he had no jurisdiction. Assembling a jury in Llano was no easy task. The countryside for miles around often had to be scoured to find a full panel.

Llano, being the county seat and the only house in town, naturally served as a temporary courthouse from time to time when the Llano County court met at long intervals. However, the accommodations were inconveniently limited, so much so that they were, on at least one occasion, responsible for a sad miscarriage of justice.

A murder trial was underway. One of the earliest settlers, a man well-known and generally liked, had killed a newcomer. It was felt that he had given his victim no chance for his life, otherwise, he probably would not have been brought to trial at all. And even despite the general disapproval, there was an undercurrent of sympathy for him in the community.

However, the court convened, and the case was called. Several settlers served as witnesses. It was considered remarkable and encouraging evidence of Llano County’s population growth when the District Attorney managed to gather enough men for a jury. At noon on the second day of the trial, the evidence was all presented, the arguments of counsel were finished, and the case was given to the jury. The prisoner’s case seemed hopeless. A premeditated murder had been proven, with scarcely any defense offered.

Judge, jury, prisoner, and witnesses all had dinner together in the "courtroom," which was frequently demoted from its temporary status as a hall of justice to the humble role of a dining room as soon as the court adjourned. Immediately after dinner, the jury retired for deliberation in the custody of two bailiffs.

To be sure, the house was large, but its capacity was already stretched to its limit, making it impossible to provide a jury room. As a result, the bailiffs typically used an open, mossy clearing shaded by a large live oak tree on the far bank of the Llano, about two or three hundred yards from the courthouse, as a jury room. The jury and bailiffs retired to this location, and discussion of a verdict began. Despite the overwhelming evidence against him, two or three jurors were in favor of acquittal. The others expressed their regret, acknowledging that Jim was a good fellow, but that they had to follow the evidence. The discussion continued into the mid-afternoon without a resolution.

It was an intensely hot afternoon; the air was thick and heavy with humidity, and it was the time of day when most Texans took a siesta. The judge and counsel were sleeping peacefully on the gallery of the distant courthouse, and the two bailiffs guarding the "jury room," overcome by habit and the heat, were stretched out on the ground, snoring in unison. This situation presented an opportunity for a friend at court. Shanghai Rhett was the friend who had been awaiting this opportunity. He emerged from the brush where he had been hiding and approached the jurors.

"Howdy, boys?" Shang drawled. "Powerful hot evenin’, ain’t it? Moseyin’ roun’ sort o’ lonesome like, I thought mebbe so you fellers’d be tired o’ talkin’ law, an’ I’d jes’ step over an’ pass the time o’ day an’ give you a rest."

Although he may have been a crude diplomat, Shang was nonetheless a cunning one. Several jurors expressed their appreciation for his sympathy, and one replied: "Tired o’ talkin’! Wall, I reckon. I’m jes’ tireder an’ dryer ‘n if I’d been tailin’ down beef steers all day. My ol’ tongue’s been a-floppin’ till thar ain’t nary ‘nother flop left in her ‘nless I could git to ile her up with a swaller o’ red-eye, an’—" regretfully—"I reckon thar ain’t no sort o’ chanst o’ that."

"Thar ain’t, hey?" Shang replied, producing a large jug from the nearby brush. "’Pears like, ‘n less I disremember, thar’s some red-eye in this yere jug."

Upon examination, the jug was found to be nearly full, and as it was passed around the "jury room," it wasn’t long before it was empty and the jury was thoroughly intoxicated.

Seizing the opportune moment before the jurors became too drunk to be obstinate and combative, Shang made his appeal. "Fellers," he said, "I allows you all knows that Jim’s my friend, an’ I reckon you cain’t say but what he’s been a mighty good friend to more’n one o’ you. Course, I know he got terrible out o’ luck when he had to kill this yer Arkinsaw feller. But then, boys, Arkinsawyers don’t count fer much nohow, do they? Powful onery, no account lot, sca’cely fit to practice shootin’ at. We fellers ain’t a-goin’ to lay that up agin Jim, air we? We ain’t a-goin’ to help this yer jack-leg prosecutin’ attorney send ol’ Jim up. Why, fellers, we knows well enough that airy one o’ us might ‘a done the same thing ef we’d been out o’ luck, like Jim was, in meetin’ up with this yer Arkinsawyer afore we’d had our mornin’ coffee. What say, boys? Seein’ as how any o’ us might be in Jim’s boots mos’ any day, reckon we’ll have to turn him loose?"

Shang’s passionate plea for Jim’s life clearly won over more than half of the jury, but there were several who, while sympathetic to Jim, claimed they "lowed they’d have to bring a verdic’ accordin’ to the evidence."

"Verdic’? Why, fellers," retorted Jim’s advocate, "whar’s the use of a fool verdic’? ‘Sposin’ we fellers was goin’ to be verdicked? This is a time for us fellers to stan’ together, shua’. I’ll tell you what le’s do; le’s all slip off inter th’ brush, cotch our hosses an’ pull our freight fer home. This year court ain’t goin’ to git airy jury but us in Llano ’till a new ones grown, and if we skip, I reckon they’ll have to turn Jim loose."

This alternative met with universal approval. In a moment, the "jury room" was empty.

Shortly thereafter, the two bailiffs, awakened by the sound of hoofs over the rocky hills behind them, were doubly shocked to find the only tenant of the "jury room" was an empty jug.

One of the bailiffs spotted some of the escaping jurors and opened fire; the other hastened to alert the court. The latter, running toward the house, met the judge and counsel who had been awakened by the firing and yelled out: "Jedge, the hull jury’s stampeded! Bill’s winged two o’ them. Gi’ me a fast hoss an’ a lariat an’ mebbe so I’ll cotch some more."

Two or three jurors who were too drunk to saddle and mount were quickly captured. The rest escaped. Of course, the court was outraged and indignant, but it was powerless. So Jim was released, thanks to Shang’s diplomacy and eloquence. Later, in the dark days that befell ranchmen in 1885, Jim, who had risen to become a well-known and powerful banker in the city, provided the necessary funds to save Shang’s imperiled fortune. And when he heard that Shang was on his deathbed, Jim took the time to leave his large affairs and travel all the way from to Llano to bid his old friend farewell.

The cow hunters accumulated cattle for two or three years after the Civil War. From Palo Pinto to San Diego, large outfits worked tirelessly, scouring the wilderness for unbranded cattle.

When an animal was spotted, one or two skilled riders would spur into pursuit, rope him by the horns or legs, and throw him to the ground. Then, dismounting and leaping nimbly onto the prostrate beast, they quickly secured its feet with a "hogtie" hitch to prevent it from rising. A fire was built, the short saddle iron was heated, and the beast was branded. The feet were then unbound, and the cow hunter leapt back into his saddle and spurred away to escape the enraged charge of his maddened victim.

During this process, workhorses were often fatally gored, and not a few men lost their lives. Even though it was a dangerous and demanding task, the men became so skilled that they did not hesitate to tackle, alone and single-handedly, large bulls weighing twice as much as their small ponies; they roped, held, threw, and branded them. The slightest accident or mistake, a slip of the foot, a stumble by the horse, a breaking cinch, a failure to maintain full tension on the lariat, slowness in dismounting to tie an animal or in mounting after it was untied – any one of these things could mean death unless the cow hunter could save himself with a quick and accurate shot. The boys loved this work and were so proud of their skill that when an unusually vicious old "moss-back" was encountered, each strove to be the first to catch and master him. It was not just work; it was a sport, the most glorious sport in the world. Riding to hounds over the stiffest country or hunting grizzly bears in juniper thickets is tame compared to cow hunting in the old days.

The happiest period of my life was my first five years on the range in the early seventies. It was a period so happy that my memory plays tricks on me, recalling its incidents and filling me with longings for pleasures I may never experience again. Its scenes are before me now, as vivid as if they were yesterday.

The night camp is set up beside a singing stream or a bubbling spring; the night horses are caught and staked; there is a roaring, merry fire of fragrant cedar boughs; a side of fat ribs is roasting on a spit before the fire, its sweet juices hissing as they drip into the flames, sending off aromas to drive one ravenous; the rich amber contents of the coffee pot is so full of life and strength that it is nearly bursting the lid with joy over the vitality and stimulus it is to bring you. After supper, there follows pipe and cigarette, jest and badinage over the day’s events; stories and songs of love, of home, of the mother; and rude impromptu epics recounting the stories of victories over vicious horses, wild beasts, or savage Indians. When the fire had burned low and become a mass of glowing coals, voices were hushed, the camp was still, and each, half-hypnotized by gazing into the weirdly shifting lights of the dying embers, was wrapped in introspection. Then, rousing, you lie down, your canopy, the dark blue vault of the heavens, your mattress, the soft, curling buffalo grass.

After a deep, refreshing sleep, you spring up at dawn with every faculty renewed and alert. After breakfast, you catch a favorite roping horse, square and heavy of shoulder and quarter, short of the back, with wide nervous nostrils, flashing eyes, ears pointing to the slightest sound, pasterns supple and strong as steel, and of a nerve and temper that is constantly reminding you that you are his master only by sufferance. Now begins the day’s hunt. Riding softly through cedar brake or mesquite thicket, slipping quickly from one live oak to another, you come upon your quarry, some great tawny yellow monster with sharp-pointed, wide-spreading horns, standing startled and rigid, gazing at you with eyes wide with curiosity, uncertain whether to attack or flee.

Usually, he at first turns and runs, and you dash after him through timber or over plain, the great loop of your lariat circling and hissing about your head, the noble horse between your knees straining every muscle in pursuit, until, coming within range, the loop is cast. It settles and tightens around the monster’s horns, and your horse stops and braces itself to the shock that may throw the quarry or cast the horse and rider to the ground, helpless at his mercy. Once he is caught, woe to you, if you cannot master and tie him, for a struggle ensues, a struggle of dexterity and intelligence against brute strength and fierce temper that cannot end until beast or man is vanquished!

Thus were the great herds accumulated in Texas after the Civil War. But cattle were so abundant that their local value was trifling. Markets had to be sought. The only outlets were the mining camps and Indian agencies of the Northwest and the railway construction camps pushing west from the Missouri River. So the Texans gathered their cattle into herds of 2000 to 3000 head each and struck north across the trackless Plains. This movement reached such proportions that, except in a few narrow mining belts, nearly every major city and town between the 98th and 120th meridians began as a supply point for these nomads. Between 1866 and 1885, 5,713,976 head of cattle were driven northward from Texas.

Afterward, the range business on a large and profitable scale was practically done and ended. In Texas, very few open ranges could turn off fair grass beef. With the good lands farmed and the poor lands exhausted, the ranges became narrower every year, and every year, the cost of getting fat grass steers was eating deeper into the range man’s pocket. There were still isolated ranges where the range men hung on, but they were not many, and most of them would later fall prey to the plow.

When the range man was forced to lease land or buy waterfronts in the Territories and build fences, his fate was soon sealed. With these conditions, he soon found that the sooner he reduced his numbers, improved his breed, and went on tame feed, the better. A corn shock is a more profitable close herder than any cow-puncher who wore spurs. This is a sad thing for a range man to contemplate, but it is nevertheless the simple truth. Soon, the merry crack of the six-shooter will no more be heard in the land, its wild and woolly manipulator being driven across the last divide, with a faint show of resistance, by an unassuming granger and his all-conquering hoe.

Like many others in the past, the range man has served his purpose and outlived his usefulness. His work is practically done, and few realize what a noble work it has been or its cost in hardship and danger.

I refer not only to the development of a great industry, which in its time has added millions to the country’s material wealth, but also to its collateral results and influence. But for the range man and his rifle, millions of acres from the Gulf in the South to Bow River in the far Canadian Northwest, now constituting the peaceful, prosperous homes of hundreds of thousands of thrifty farmers, would have remained for many years longer what they had been from the beginning – a hunting and battleground for Indians, and a safe retreat for wild game.

What was the hardship and what the personal risk with which this great pioneer work was accomplished, few know except those who had a hand in it, and they, as a rule, were modest men who thought little of what they did, and now that it is done, say less.

By Edgar B. Bronson, 1910. Compiled and edited by Kathy Alexander/Legends of America, updated January 2025.

About the Author: Edgar Beecher Bronson wrote The Red-Blooded Heroes of the Frontier. This article is a chapter of this book, published by A.C. Mcclurg & Co. in 1910. Bronson worked not only as a reporter and writer, publishing several books and articles, but also as a cowboy and a rancher. As it appears here, the text is not verbatim, however, as it has been edited for clarity and ease of reading for the modern reader.