For the drovers heading Longhorn cattle up the Chisholm Trail to the railheads, Fort Worth was the last major stop for rest and supplies. Beyond Fort Worth they would have to deal with crossing the Red River into Indian Territory. So, because Fort Worth was on the route north, between 1866 and 1890 more than four million head of cattle were trailed through the town.
Then, when the railroad arrived in 1876, Fort Worth became a major shipping point for livestock. This prompted plans in 1887 for the construction of the Union Stockyard Company located about two and one half miles north of the Tarrant County Courthouse. The Union Stockyard Company, was now in full operation.
William Hurley, founder and president of the Union Stockyard Company in Fort Worth, was an average-sized man, though he was dwarfed by Big Ben’s towering presence. Hurley, who wore a Vandyke beard, invited Big Ben into his office, offering him a seat across from his desk. A brass locomotive acted as a paper weight for the many pieces of paper that were piled up on this busy man’s desk.
“So you want to sell me some cows, do you?” Hurley asked.
“I do.”
“Good.” Hurley opened a wooden box and handed Big Ben a cigar. “Try this, I think you will like it. It comes from Cuba.”
Big Ben nodded as he accepted the cigar. He took a small cutter from his pocket, nipped off the end, then ran his tongue up the side of the cigar. Before he reached for his own matches, Hurly struck a match, let the carbon burn away, then held the flame to the tip of Big Ben’s cigar.
“I think,” Hurley said as Big Ben puffed on the cigar, securing the light and sending up a white puff of aromatic smoke, “that if a cowman like you, one of the men who made the Texas cattle industry, would start using the stockyard, it would spread to others. And that would be good for Texas.”
“And particularly good for you, I would expect,” Big Ben replied around the edge of his cigar.
“I’ll admit that if I could start a thriving cattle market, right here in Fort Worth, it would be good for me,” Hurley said.
“Speaking as a cattleman, I have to tell you that the problem we would have in dealing with you, Will, is the fact that you don’t pay enough. It is my understanding that you are paying one dollar a head below the Kansas City market.”
“That is true,” Hurley admitted. “But, like you, I have to get the cows to Kansas City, and I do that by train, which is quite expensive.”
“What you should do is start a meat-processing plant right here in Fort Worth,” Big Ben suggested.
Hurley chuckled. “Mr. Conyers, you are a brilliant man, for that is exactly what I plan to do. I have been discussing this very subject with Mr. Phillip Armor, of the Armor Meat Packing Company.”
“When you get that done, I think you will have a lot of cattlemen dealing with you. I know that I will.”
“I appreciate that,” Hurley said. “In fact, to show you how much I appreciate your business, if you will let me use your name in talking to others, I will make you a special deal on your cattle,” Hurley said. “Instead of paying one dollar below market price, I will give you ninety cents below market price.”
Big Ben was pleased with that proposal, for that wouldn’t be much less than he would make if he drove the entire herd to Dodge City, especially considering the fact that he was certain to lose some cattle during the drive. But he knew better than to show how pleased he was with that offer, so he made a counter-bid.
“Suppose I took half a dollar less?”
Hurley shook his head. “I couldn’t do that,” he said. “But I might be able to go eighty cents below market.”
“Make it seventy cents, and you have a deal,” Big Ben said.
“Mr. Wiggins,” Hurley called through the open door of his office.
A small, bald-headed man stepped into the door. “Yes sir, Mr. Hurley?”
“What is the latest market price for Longhorns in Kansas City?”
“Four dollars and ninety cents.”
“Thank you.”
Hurley did some figuring, then looked up. “I can give you four dollars and fifteen cents a head. That’s seventy five cents below market and quite frankly, Mr. Conyers, this is the best I can do.”
Big Ben extended his hand across the desk. “Mr. Hurley, I’ll have the cattle here by day after tomorrow,” he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Biff Johnson saw a tall man with golden hair, wide shoulders, and muscular arms come into Fiddler’s Green, the saloon Biff owned, he reached under the bar to find the special bottle of Scotch that he kept just for his friend, Duff MacCallister. He also poured one for himself, then held his glass up.
“Here’s to them that like us, and to them that think us swell,” Biff said.
“And to them that hates us, long may they roast in hell,” Duff replied, as, with a laugh, the two friends touched their glasses together.
Biff Johnson was a retired U.S. Army sergeant who had been with Benteen’s battalion as part of Custer’s last scout. When he retired he had built a saloon in Chugwater and named it Fiddler’s Green, after an old cavalry legend: Anyone who has ever heard the bugle call Boots and Saddles will, when he dies, go to a cool, shady place by a stream of sweet water. There, he will see all the other cavalrymen who have gone before him, and he will greet those who come after him as he awaits the final judgment. That place is called Fiddler’s Green.
In the three years since Duff had come to America, he and Biff had become good friends, partly because Biff was married to a woman from Scotland, and partly because of an incident that had happened shortly after Duff arrived.
“Will you be coming into town for the Fourth of July celebration?” Biff asked.
“When is that?”
“The Fourth of July is on the fourth,” Biff answered with a laugh. “Funny thing about that holiday, but it comes on the fourth, every July.”
“What day of the week?” Duff asked, laughing with him.
“I know what you meant, I was just teasing you. It’s next Friday. Of course, being a Scotsman, our
