Ten days afterward I noticed a number of my steers were ailing; their
ears drooped, they refused to eat, and fell to the rear as we grazed
forward. The next morning there were forty head unable to leave the
bed-ground, and by noon a number of them had died. I had heard of
Texas fever, but always treated it as more or less a myth, and now
it held my little herd of natives in its toils. By this time we had
reached some settlement on the Cottonwood, and the pioneer settlers in
Kansas arose in arms and quarantined me. No one knew what the trouble
was, yet the cattle began dying like sheep; I was perfectly helpless,
not knowing which way to turn or what to do. Quarantine was
unnecessary, as within a few days half the cattle were sick, and it
was all we could do to move away from the stench of the dead ones.
A veterinary was sent for, who pronounced it Texas fever. I had
previously cut open a number of dead animals, and found the contents
of their stomachs and manifolds so dry that they would flash and burn
like powder. The fever had dried up their very internals. In the hope
of administering a purgative, I bought whole fields of green corn,
and turned the sick and dying cattle into them. I bought oils by the
barrel, my men and myself worked night and day, inwardly drenching
affected animals, yet we were unable to stay the ravages of death.
Once the cause of the trouble was located,--crossing ground over
which Texas cattle had passed,--the neighbors became friendly, and
sympathized with me.
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