Loving’s Bend, New Mexico

By Edgar Beecher Bronson in 1910

The story of Oliver Loving, a name synonymous with courage and enterprise in the American West, particularly in the cattle country stretching from San Antonio to Fort Griffin, Texas, during the 1860s, remains a captivating legend. His tragic tale, one of grit and sacrifice, continues to be shared around campfires, a testament to the spirit of the pioneers who shaped the landscape. This is a story of Loving’s Bend, New Mexico.

Oliver Loving distinguished himself as a particularly astute and forward-thinking cattleman. He was among the first to recognize the potential profits that lay in expanding the market for Texas cattle northward. The promise of lucrative trade beckoned from the Indian agencies and burgeoning mining camps scattered across northern New Mexico and Colorado, as well as the established Mormon communities in Utah. However, reaching these markets presented a formidable challenge. The terrain to the north was largely uncharted, a vast expanse shrouded in mystery. The only certainty was the presence of numerous, often hostile, Native American tribes. Critical information regarding the availability of water and grazing land – essential for the survival of large herds – was nonexistent.

The existing overland mail route to El Paso, Chihuahua, and Los Angeles offered a potential, albeit circuitous, path. It extended westward from the head of the Concho River to the Pecos. The Pecos River, with its source vaguely located in the north, was perceived as a possible artery to reach the desired markets. The major obstacle, however, lay in crossing the ninety-mile stretch of arid plateau known as the Llano Estacado, or Staked Plain, to reach the Pecos River.

This imposing plain earned its name from early Spanish explorers. Confronted by the vast, featureless landscape, they relied on driven stakes to mark their passage and ensure their safe return. The Llano Estacado is an elevated tableland, averaging one hundred miles in width and extending four hundred miles north to south. Approaching it from any direction, east or west, reveals an unbroken line of sharply defined bluffs. These escarpments, rising between one hundred and two hundred feet, are marked by buttresses and re-entrant angles, creating the illusion of an immense, fortified city wall. Indeed, the Llano Estacado guarded riches worthy of such a fortification.

Despite lacking surface springs or streams from the Devil’s River in the south to Yellow House Canyon in the north, the Llano Estacado serves as the source of the entire stream system of central and south Texas. The porous soil greedily absorbs every drop of rainfall, channeling it into a vitalizing flood that irrigates and enriches a vast territory. This subterranean reservoir is the lifeblood of Texas, supporting its agricultural prosperity, including the production of one-third of the cotton grown in the United States. While bountiful to the south and east, the plain is unforgiving elsewhere, offering only two meager springs, Grierson and Mescalero, along its western escarpment.

Given that a driven herd typically covers only twelve to sixteen miles per day, and even less during the spring months when drives usually began, traversing the ninety-mile “dry drive” from the Concho River to the Horsehead Crossing of the Pecos seemed a reckless undertaking. Experts estimated that two-thirds of the cattle would likely perish from thirst.

Oliver Loving, however, possessed the courage and determination to defy these odds. He became the first to brave the Llano Estacado, succeeding against all expectations. He navigated the treacherous plain, fought his way up the Pecos River, reached a profitable market, and returned home in the autumn of 1866, laden with gold and tales of the lucrative opportunities awaiting Texas ranchers in the north. This marked the inception of the legendary “Texas trail drive,” a two-decade period that saw the movement of six million cattle into the plains and mountains of the Northwest. Oliver Loving was the trailblazing pioneer of this monumental industrial migration. The story of Loving’s Bend, New Mexico begins here.

Fort Sumner, New Mexico, located on the Pecos River approximately four hundred miles north of Horsehead Crossing, was a significant government outpost and the agency for the Navajo Indians (those not currently engaged in warfare). During his summer drive of 1867, Loving secured a contract to deliver two herds of beef to the fort the following season. His partner in this venture was Charles Goodnight, who would later become renowned as the proprietor of the Palo Duro ranch in the Texas Panhandle.

Loving and Goodnight, both young and seasoned veterans of numerous Comanche attacks on settlements and retaliatory raids, approached their task with confidence. They had survived countless close calls, often relying on the meager shelter of a buffalo wallow to defend themselves.

Starting their roundup early in March, as soon as the spring grass began to emerge, they meticulously selected cattle of suitable age and condition. By the end of the month, they had assembled two herds, each numbering approximately two thousand head, at the head of the Concho River. Loving assumed responsibility for one herd, while Goodnight oversaw the other.

Each outfit consisted of eight hand-picked cowboys, thoroughly trained in the harsh realities of the Plains, a “horse wrangler,” and a cook. Each rider was assigned a string of five horses, with the loose horses driven alongside the herd during the day and guarded by the “horse wrangler” at night.

The cook drove a team of six small Spanish mules harnessed to a mess wagon. This wagon carried provisions, primarily bacon and jerked beef, flour, beans, and coffee, as well as the men’s blankets, “war sacks,” and basic cooking equipment. A “rawhide” – a dried, untanned, and unscraped cow hide – was suspended beneath the wagon bed, serving a dual purpose: as a carryall for odds and ends and as a source of repair material for saddles and wagons. It contained pots, kettles, extra horseshoes, farrier’s tools, and firewood, as fuel was often scarce across the plains. Two large water barrels, each fitted with a spigot, were lashed securely to the sides of the wagon, indispensable for long trail drives. In instances like this, where exceptionally long dry stretches were anticipated, additional water kegs were carried in the wagons.

These wagons were rudimentary affairs, canvas-covered prairie schooners designed to withstand the elements. Many were patched and repaired so extensively that little original material remained. Held together by splints and strips of the cowboy’s ever-present rawhide, they creaked and groaned along the trail, constantly threatening to collapse, yet somehow enduring until the next major mishap necessitated further rawhide bandages. Wagons of this type, veterans of the 1868 trail drives, likely remained in use in Texas for many years afterward.

The cowboys themselves were the embodiment of the rugged Western spirit. Lean, wiry, and bronzed, clad in leather chaparejos, small boots, high heels, and large spurs, they were, despite their seemingly relaxed posture, among the finest rough-riders in the world.

Cowboy character was characterized by unwavering loyalty. Once a cowboy accepted a job and a paycheck, his employer could rely on his faithfulness and honesty. While a cowboy might resort to violence if he felt mistreated, he was equally quick to defend his employer, regardless of the odds. Another defining trait was their profound respect for women. Insulting a woman was unthinkable for a true cowboy.

These were men who spoke fondly of home and “mammy” around the campfire, enduring a life of hardship and deprivation with remarkable patience and good humor. Whether drenched in rain, bitten by snow, scorched by heat, or numbed by cold, they met each challenge with a jest.

Vices? Perhaps they were prone to boisterous behavior in town and quick to settle disputes with weapons, but these were understandable consequences of their demanding lifestyle.

On well-established trails with ample water and grazing, an experienced trail boss would manage the herd’s movement to mimic the natural grazing habits of wild cattle. At dawn, the herd would rise and graze leisurely in the desired direction. By mid-morning, having eaten their fill, they would be “strung out on the trail” towards water. Riders would “point” the leaders while others “swung” along the flanks, pushing the herd into a narrow column that stretched for a mile or more. They could easily cover six to nine miles by noon. Upon reaching water, the cattle would scatter along the stream, drinking and resting. Dinner would follow, and the off-duty cowboys would nap in the shade of the wagon until the herd roused itself in the early afternoon and resumed its journey.

The afternoon mileage was typically shorter. At twilight, the herd would be rounded up into a compact mass and “bedded down” for the night. The first relief of the night guard would ride slowly around the perimeter, singing softly and turning back stragglers. If properly grazed, the herd would settle quickly, remaining quiet until dawn unless spooked by an unforeseen event.

The night guard, rotating every two or three hours, would ride in circles, their spurs jingling and their voices droning in a monotonous song, recounting the deeds of frontier heroes or singing love songs.

However, the ninety-mile trek across the Llano Estacado demanded a complete departure from this relaxed routine. To have any chance of success, the cattle had to be driven relentlessly, kept on their feet and moving for as long as they could endure.

Upon reaching the head of the Concho River, Loving and Goodnight allowed two full days of rest to allow the weaker cattle to recuperate. Then, late one afternoon, after the herd had been well-grazed and watered, and the water barrels and kegs filled to capacity, they started the herd westward, driving throughout the night without rest.

Driving in the cool of the night and early morning, and resting during the heat of midday, the herd was pushed westward for three nights and four days.

The horses suffered the most on these dry drives. The riders, constantly covering far greater distances than the herd in their daily duties, were forced to ration the precious water in the barrels to their mounts. By the second night, every drop of water was gone. Parched, dust-choked, and exhausted, men, horses, and cattle pushed onward.

Finally, within fifteen miles of the Pecos River, even the strongest cattle began to falter, their eyes glazed and their heads drooping. Suddenly, the demeanor of the cattle changed. Heads lifted, ears perked up, and eyes brightened. The leaders quickened their pace, breaking into a trot. The cow-hunters said they smelled water. Whether it was scent or sheer desperation, the surge was unstoppable. Four men galloped ahead to control the herd as much as possible upon reaching the stream. Behind them, the weaker cattle struggled to keep pace. A single herd was strung out over four or five miles.

Upon reaching the stream, great care was required to guide the cattle to gentle watering spots. In their frenzy, they would trample one another down any bluff. However, the Pecos was reached, and the herds were watered with relatively few losses. Loving’s and Goodnight’s outfits rested for three days at Horsehead Crossing, recuperating. Then, the drive up the wide, level valley of the Pecos began, through thickets of tornilla and mesquite, with horses and cattle grazing in the tall, juicy zacaton grass.

The dangers of the Llano Estacado were behind them, but now they entered the domain of the Comanche, facing the constant threat of ambush. They encountered abundant Indian “sign,” trails, and camps, but the signs were several days old, offering hope that the war parties were engaged in raids to the east or south. After four days of travel up the Pecos without encountering fresh signs, they concluded the Indians were elsewhere. Loving decided he could safely proceed ahead of the herds to Fort Sumner to make arrangements for their delivery, provided he traveled only by night and remained concealed during the day.

Two brothers, Jim and Bill Scott, veterans of Loving’s previous Pecos drives, were part of Loving’s outfit. He chose Jim Scott as his companion for the ride to Fort Sumner.

As darkness fell, Loving mounted a favorite mule, and Jim his best horse. Armed with Henry rifles and two six-shooters each, they bid a brief farewell to Goodnight and the men and set off up the trail. Riding rapidly through the night, they concealed themselves just before dawn in the rough hills below Pope’s Crossing, ate a quick meal, and slept undisturbed until nightfall.

They slipped down a ravine to the river, watered their mounts, and resumed their journey north. The night passed without incident, except for disturbing a large herd of sleeping buffalo.

Dawn found them riding through level country about fifteen miles below the present town of Carlsbad, lacking any cover for concealment. They decided to push on to the hills above the mouth of Dark Canyon. This was their mistake. Had they ridden a mile or two west of the trail and dismounted before daylight, they likely would not have been discovered. Traveling by day in that territory was reckless, regardless of recent Indian sign. Anxious to reach a secure hiding place where they could both sleep, they pressed on, paying a heavy price for their imprudence.

Other riders were out that morning, riders with the keen eyes of hawks, eyes that never rested, eyes set in heads as cunning as foxes and as cruel as wolves. A Comanche war party was on the move early, riding out of sight in the narrow valley below the hills lining the river.

While the main party remained hidden, their scouts ventured ahead, creeping along beneath the edge of the plain, scanning the landscape. They soon found their quarry.

Loving and Jim were in sight!

Though distant specks, the trained eyes of the scouts identified them as horsemen and white men.

Halting for the main war party to arrive, they held a brief council, deciding to attack two or three miles further up the river, where the trail neared the stream. The scouts mounted, and the war party moved leisurely north, taking position opposite the bend in the trail.

Loving and Jim, unaware, continued their journey, their animals weary from the long night’s ride. Reaching the bend, just as Jim remarked, pointing to a low hill to the west, “That’d be a blame good place to stand off a bunch o’ Injuns,” they were startled by the sound of thundering hoofs to their right. Looking around, they saw a sight that would unnerve even the bravest.

Racing out of the valley towards them, barely four hundred yards away, was a band of forty or fifty Comanche warriors, crouched low on their horses’ withers, urging their mounts to maximum speed.

Their own animals exhausted, escape was impossible. They whirled around and spurred towards the hill Jim had noted. Their pace was slow. The Indians were gaining, firing as they advanced. Before they reached the hill, a ball struck Loving’s thigh, killing his mule. The mule fell, providentially, on the bank of a buffalo wallow – a circular depression two or three feet deep and eight or ten feet in diameter.

Instantly, Jim sprang to the ground, gave his bridle to Loving, who lay helpless beneath his horse, and opened fire with his Henry rifle. Two Comanche fell, one horse was knocked down, and the charge was halted.

While the Indians retreated, Jim pulled Loving from beneath the mule, applied a tourniquet to his leg, and placed him in as comfortable a position as possible within the shelter of the wallow, behind the mule’s carcass. Jim then led his horse to the opposite bank of the wallow, drew his bowie knife, and cut the animal’s throat: they were in a fight to the death, and, outnumbered twenty to one, needed breastworks. As the horse fell, Jim dropped behind him, and Loving called out, “Reckon we’re all right now, Jim, and can down half o’ them before they get us. Hell! Here they come again!”

Jim replied, “Bet yer life, ole man. We’ll make ’em settle now.”

Stripped to their waist-cloths and moccasins, faces painted black and bronze, bodies striped with vermilion, adorned with buffalo horns and eagle feathers, the Comanche warriors presented a terrifying spectacle. Their horses were similarly unadorned, save for a bridle and a hair rope.

They charged at full speed, until within range, when each warrior, with unmatched dexterity, pushed his right knee into the slack of the hair rope, seized the bridle and mane with his left hand, curled his left heel into the horse’s flank, and dropped down on the animal’s right side, exposing only a hand and a foot. The band raced around Loving’s entrenchment in single file, firing beneath their horses’ necks, drawing closer with each circle.

Loving and Jim conserved their ammunition. Lying low until the enemy was within range, they opened fire, dropping six horses and wounding three Indians. Balls and arrows flew about them, but they remained untouched. The Comanche withdrew.

Twice more the Indians attempted the same tactics, with no greater success. Later, they tried long-range sharpshooting, which Loving and Jim ignored. Finally, late in the afternoon, they launched a direct charge, hoping to ride over the two white men. The fire from the buffalo wallow caused such heavy casualties in the front ranks that the column faltered, broke, and retreated.

Night fell. Loving and Jim ate their few biscuits and some raw bacon. Their thirst was intense, and they agreed that they must have water at any cost. They knew the Indians were unlikely to attack again until dawn, and decided to try to reach the stream after midnight. The journey, though only fifteen hundred yards, was agonizing for Loving. Forced to crawl silently, Jim could offer little assistance. Nevertheless, dragging his shattered leg, Loving followed Jim, and they reached the river and drank.

They needed new cover. The banks of the Pecos were nearly perpendicular, ten to twenty feet high, with deep holes carved by the current. Jim found a recess wide and deep enough to hold them both, offering protection from fire from the opposite shore. The bank above them rose twenty feet, preventing attack from above.

At dawn, the Indians crept towards the first entrenchment, finding it deserted. The trail of Loving’s dragging leg was clear, leading them to the river. Two of their number were killed outright as they came within range of the new defenses.

Throughout the day, they tried every tactic to dislodge Loving, without success. The opposite bank was too exposed for attack. Burning brush dropped from above failed to lodge before the recess. The position seemed impregnable, and they surrounded the spot, intending to starve the white men out.

Loving and Jim discussed their situation. Loving was weakening. They had little food. Without relief, they would starve. Jim should try to reach Goodnight and bring aid. It was a desperate hope, but their only one. The herds were at least sixty miles back. Jim was reluctant, but Loving urged him to go.

Under cover of darkness, Jim removed his clothing, hung his boots around his neck, slid into the river, and floated downstream for a quarter mile. He crept out on the bank, having lost his boots. He traveled all night, rested in the morning, resumed his trek in the afternoon, and continued through the second night.

Near morning, famished, weak, with bleeding feet, Jim lay down in a rocky recess and fell asleep.

The two outfits were camped a mile further down the trail. At dawn, they passed Jim without seeing him. Then, three or four horses strayed from the “horse wrangler,” and Jim’s brother Bill was sent to find them. He discovered the prostrate Jim, nearly naked and bleeding. Bill roused Jim, helped him onto his horse, and hurried to catch up with the outfit. Coffee and food revived him, and he told his story.

Goodnight immediately ordered six men to saddle their strongest horses, leaving the outfits to continue as best they could, and rode to his partner’s rescue.

Loving had a close call the day after Jim left. The Comanche crossed the river, firing beneath their horses’ necks. By a miracle, Loving was not hit, returning such a destructive fire that the Comanche were forced to withdraw. The afternoon passed without alarm. The remaining Comanche had abandoned the siege, striking off southwest towards Guadalupe Peak.

That night, Loving worried. Jim might be captured. He must escape and try to reach the trail at the crossing four miles north. His own outfits might reach him there. He started early in the night, dragged himself up the bluff, and reached the plain. Supposing the Comanche were still nearby, he set out to reach the crossing.

Starving, weak from blood loss, his shattered thigh forcing him to crawl, his journey was horrific. But he succeeded. Love of life carried him through. Late the next afternoon, the day Goodnight started to his relief, Loving reached the crossing, lay down beneath a mesquite bush, and fell into a swoon. Ever since, this spot has been known as Loving’s Bend, New Mexico.

That evening, a party of Mexican freighters, traveling south from Fort Sumner to Fort Stockton, arrived and camped near where he lay. Loving did not hear them.

Luckily, help arrived.

While some unharnessed the teams, others went to fetch firewood. One Mexican, thinking he saw a mesquite root, seized it and tugged. It was Loving’s leg.

Startled, the Mexican yelled, “Que vienen, hombres! Que vienen por el amor de Dios! Aqui esta un muerto!”

They dragged Loving from under the mesquite and carried him to the fire, finding him still breathing. They gave him mescal, and the next morning, he was able to eat and tell his story. The Mexicans dressed his wound and promised to stay until his friends arrived.

Before noon, Goodnight and his men arrived, guided by the Indian sign. Goodnight hired the Mexicans to take Loving to Fort Sumner in a carreta. After a nine-day march, they reached the fort.

While Loving had gained strength, his wound was worsening. Goodnight brought the herds to the Rio Penasco and then rode to Fort Sumner, finding his partner in critical condition.

Gangrene had set in. Amputation was necessary. The medical officer was unavailable, and Goodnight decided to send a rider to Las Vegas for a surgeon.

The road to Las Vegas was infested with hostile Navajos. Goodnight offered a thousand dollars for a rider, but no one volunteered. To go himself was impossible.

Then, Scot Moore, the wood and hay contractor, offered to go.

“Charlie,” he said, “Oliver shall not die if I can save him. I’ll be in Vegas by sun-up tomorrow morning, and I’ll be back here tomorrow night with a doctor if the Navajo don’t get us.”

Moore rode off.

At sunrise, Moore arrived in Las Vegas and found a doctor.

They set off for Sumner.

Approaching Enteros Canyon, the doctor saw fifty or sixty Navajo ponies tied to trees. Overcome with terror, he urged Moore to turn back.

Moore refused. “Oliver Loving is dying, and I promised to fetch you.”

They drove through the canyon, meeting a train of freight teams. They warned the freighters, but they drove on into the canyon.

None of them came out.

Moore and the doctor reached Sumner. Covering two hundred and sixty miles in less than thirty hours, Moore had kept his word!

Sadly, Oliver Loving died under the shock of the operation.

Scot Moore is now gone, but the memory of his heroic ride should live on.

Edgar Beecher Bronson, 1910.