Setting The Record Straight On The Western Trail

A trail’s name shouldn’t be a marketing plan, yet that’s exactly how the West’s most traveled cattle route got mislabeled. We follow the evidence from a fresh historiographical review back to 1874, when John T. Lytle cut a new path north after the Chisholm route jammed, and forward to the moment Dodge City exploded into the greatest cattle market on earth. Along the way, we sit with the drovers’ own words—the functional names they used at the time—and weigh them against monuments, brochures, and a 1960s academic phrase that grew into a modern myth.

We break down how the Western Trail took shape: the 7D steers headed for the Red Cloud Agency, the push through Cow Gap, and the pivot to the Santa Fe railhead at Dodge. Then we zoom out to the forces that ended the era—barbed wire tightening across the plains and Kansas quarantine laws that shut the gate on Texas herds. The numbers are staggering: millions of cattle and horses moved along this single route, reshaping the national diet and remaking a frontier town. Yet the cultural heartbeat remains in small details: a two‑bits bath, a new shirt from the general store, a night at the Long Branch.

The naming controversy ties past to present. We recount the 1931 granite marker that enraged George W. Saunders by blending rival trails, track the 1965 origin of “Great Western Trail,” and examine why later citations fall apart under close reading. Our case for Western Cattle Trail isn’t just pedantry—it’s about honoring the people who built the route, avoiding confusion with a modern recreational trail, and keeping the historical record clean. If you care about what really happened—and what we choose to call it—this story gives you the tools to spot folklore dressed up as fact.

If this deep dive sharpened your view of Western history, follow the show, share it with a friend who loves the cattle trails, and leave a review telling us which piece of evidence changed your mind.

Chapters

• 0:00 What’s In A Name
• 0:48 The Case For “Western Trail”
• 2:26 A Monument Sparks A Feud
• 5:30 Lytle Forges A New Route
• 8:08 Dodge City Becomes The Market
• 11:20 What Drovers Actually Called It
• 13:03 Barbed Wire And Quarantine Laws
• 15:06 The “Great Western” Myth
• 18:03 Clearing The Record And Why It Matters

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 0:18

What's in a name? When it comes to the great cattle highways of the 19th century, a name isn't just a label, it's a story. It's a claim to history. And sometimes it's a source of intense debate. Welcome to Wild West Podcast. I'm your host, Brad Smalley. Our story today begins not in 1874, but just a few days ago. On Saturday, November 8th, 2025, a critical meeting took place at the Kansas Heritage Center right here in Dodge City. Two of the foremost researchers on this topic, Gary Chrysinger, Margaret Chrysinger, and our producer Mike King, gathered for a comparative historiographical analysis. Their focus? The one true name of the 19th century cattle trail that ran from South Texas to Dodge City and beyond. Their discussions, based on a deep dive into primary sources, were definitive. The historically accurate name for this route is the Western Trail. Contemporaries also knew it by its functional names, the Dodge City Trail or the Fort Griffin Trail. But what about the name many of us see on highway markers and in tourist brochures today? The Great Western Trail. This they concluded is a 20th-century misnomer. It's a name that lacks solid backing from 19th century sources. It first gained traction through a master's thesis by Jimmy M. Skaggs in 1965, a thesis he himself later revised in his subsequent peer-reviewed research. That name then resurfaced in the 21st century around 2003, driven largely by non-academic organizations and local rotary clubs. The goal was often heritage tourism and memorialization, a way to compete for public attention with the more widely known Chisholm Trail. The dialogue from that Saturday laid the groundwork for the in-depth research and the very story you are about to hear. Today we're separating fact from folklore, history from heritage. We're setting the record straight. They belonged to the old time Trail Drivers Association. A brotherhood of survivors gathered at this lonely spot by the Red River to set the record straight. Their purpose was to unveil a monument, a granite marker honoring the ground where their great trail, the lifeline of their youth, had departed from the state. Among them was their president, George W. Saunders, who held a deep reverence for their history. But another figure, P. P. Ackley, a retired cattle inspector from Oklahoma, had a different vision. Having invested$1,000 of his own money into the granite stone, Ackley aimed to honor the drovers, albeit with a unique twist. He fervently promoted the trail under the name Longhorn Chisholm Trail. When the tarp was lifted from the stone, the old drovers squinted at the inscription, which praised their courage and fortitude in liberating Texas from the yoke of debt and despair. However, as their eyes fell in the final chiseled line, the mood shifted dramatically. It read, The Longhorn Chisholm Trail and the Western Trail, 1876, 1895. To Saunders, this wording felt like a betrayal, an act of historical violence. Witnesses reported that he became livid, finding the name intolerable. The essence of their trail, the Western Trail, was its distinction from the Chisholm. This inscription felt like erasing their legacy. Soon a feud broke out. Saunders fired off blistering letters, accusing Ackley of trying to position himself as the Napoleon of the Cattle Trails. The conflict at Down's Crossing transcended mere stone. It was a battle for the ownership of history, unearthing a central mystery that has been quietly brewing for decades. What was the true name of this trail? The year was 1874. Post-Civil War Texas found itself overflowing with cattle, yet cash poor, while the nation craved beef from the South. However, the primary route, the Chisholm Trail, had become nearly impassable, clogged by sodbusters, increasingly restricted by quarantine laws, and overrun by settlers. Finding a new artery was no longer a luxury. It had become an economic imperative. Enter John T. Lytle, a seasoned cattleman from Medina County. Lytle was no mythical hero. He was a pragmatic businessman who had secured a U.S. government contract. This contract revealed high stakes. It wasn't just about profits, it was a major humanitarian need. Lytle's task was to deliver 3,500 large-aged steers to the Red Cloud Agency to feed the Sioux at Camp Robinson, Nebraska. This drive was not along an established route. As one drover later recounted, Lytle's men beat out a trail over sections of the country that had not been traveled before. The archival records of the drive read like a surveyor's log, filled with ity-bitty details that fleshed out this new path. Lytle's men gathered Longhorns, branded them with the 7D, and pushed them north, forging the trail as they went. They crossed the Illino River at Beef Trail Crossing, the Sans Saba at Peg Leg Crossing, and exited the hill country through Cow Gap. This trail was an invention in its truest sense. Its identity emerged from its westerly direction and its specific purpose, the Red Cloud Agency, marking it as fundamentally distinct from the Chisholm Trail to the East. Lytle's Trail was created with the intent to replace the Chisholm. This is why, 57 years later, George W. Saunders was so livid.

unknown: 7:39

P.

SPEAKER_00: 7:39

P. Ackley's Longhorn Chisholm name was more than just a mistake. It was an effort to blend two routes that had from the outset existed as commercial rivals. John Lytle's journey in 1874 to a remote agency soon led him to a new captivating destination. In 1872, the Acheson, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad laid tracks into the small Kansas settlement of Dodge City. By 1875, Lytle's new western route was aimed directly at this booming town. Over the next decade, the intersection of trails and railroads transformed Dodge City into the queen of the cowtowns. During this brief yet tumultuous decade, it truly became the greatest cattle market in the world. This wasn't just an exaggerated claim. The numbers bore out the reality. On any given day, around 75,000 head of Longhorn could be seen grazing on the plains around the town. The annual cattle drives surged from around 250,000 head in 1876 to nearly half a million by the 1880s. In total, an estimated six to seven million cattle, along with about a million horses, traveled along this single route, surpassing all other cattle trails combined. One old timer reminisced, it felt like all of Texas had converged in Dodge City, overflowing with buyers and drovers. This trail served as the economic engine that reintegrated Texas into the national economy, ultimately shifting the American diet from pork to beef. However, the grand economic figures don't fully capture the raw reality of the town that formed around this trail. To truly animate history, we need to consider the drovers themselves. The Texas cattle herder was depicted by contemporaries as a character unlike any other. He was often described as uneducated and illiterate, surviving on a diet of navy plug and whiskey, while donning a sombrero with a low crown and brim of gigantic proportions. He was seen as dangerous and reckless, known for his propensity to drink, swear, and brawl. After two grueling months on the trail, these men arrived in Dodge ready to let off some steam. Their rituals were predictable. First, they would stop by the barbershop for a two-bits bath in the tub out back. Next, they headed to the general store to replace their frayed, dirty, and smelly clothing from the trail. Finally, they flocked to the saloons, the Alamo, the Long Branch, for 50 cent whiskey and games of poker or chuckleck. The entire identity of Dodge City as the cowboy capital of the world was built solely upon the commerce of this single trail. The competing Chisholm Trail led to Abilene. For this decade, the town and the trail were virtually synonymous, and their interdependent relationship explained the names the drovers use. The men who travel this trail were not romantic figures. They were laborers and businessmen in their own right. The archives of their diaries and contemporary newspaper accounts reveal that they referred to the trail by its straightforward, functional names, rather than the grandiose Great Western Trail. Their names were logical and rooted in the trail's essence. The Dodge City Trail. This was perhaps the most common name, favored by both drovers and newspapers alike, as Dodge City was the destination where they received their pay. The Fort Griffin Trail. This pragmatic name highlighted a key waypoint. Fort Griffin was the last major supply stop in Texas where drovers could rest, restock, and sometimes secure a military guide for the journey through Indian territory. The Western Trail. A broad geographic term, this name served to distinguish it from the Eastern Chisholm Trail. In all 19th century primary sources, the word great is noticeably absent. During a legal battle in 1931, the men of the old time Trail Drivers Association fought to preserve the trail's authentic identity. The modern term Western Cattle Trail is accepted as the most precise academic label for this collection of routes. Western, Dodge City, Fort Griffin, that the drovers understood and used, accurately portraying its geography and purpose. The era was as fleeting as it was dynamic. The very forces that forged the cattle trail would, in a matter of years, turn against it. The first nemesis wasn't a person, but rather an invention. Barbed wire. The decline began with a striking scene in San Antonio in 1876. A salesman, nicknamed Betamillion Gates, staged a remarkable demonstration on Alamo Plaza. He created a small corral using the new spiked wire and left the cattlemen astonished as he managed to contain a herd of stampeding longhorns. Gates famously described his product as light as air, stronger than whiskey, and cheap as dirt. This devil's rope quickly spread across the plains, igniting the fence-cutting conflicts of the early 1880s. The entire economic framework of the cattle drive hinged upon vast expanses of open range. Barbed wire effectively blocked the cattle trails, obstructed cattle drives, and physically choked off the open routes. As the wire tightened its grip on the trail, a legislative force moved in to seal its fate. For years, Kansas farmers had been plagued by Texas fever. The Southern Longhorns, while immune to the tick-borne disease, carried ticks that proved deadly to northern cattle. The Inland Tribune of Great Bend, Kansas, proclaimed in 1877, the heir of the unnaturalized Texas steer is certain death to our civilized cattle. For a decade, the economic might of Dodd City had kept the quarantine restrictions at bay. However, as more settlers, known as sodbusters, poured in, the political landscape shifted. In 1885, the Kansas legislature implemented a strict statewide quarantine law. Texas cattle became off-limits. The deadline for Dodge City was moved to the state line. It was a confluence of such moments that sealed the trail's fate. The Chisholm Trail had long since faded. With Kansas declaring it off-limits and barbed wire blocking the way, the Western Trail began to wither. The last major drive was recorded in 1897, but by then the great artery had already bled out. The greatest cattle market in the world had collapsed. With the 19th century trail now a thing of the past, the 20th century battle over its name began. At the heart of this modern narrative is the term Great Western Trail, a name that has been long championed as a 19th-century creation. However, evidence gathered from archival sources tells a different story. The definitive proof comes from the National Park Service's own research. In a 2009 study, the NPS noted, beginning in the 1960s, a Texas historian dubbed it the Great Western Trail. This historian was Jimmy M. Skaggs, whose 1965 article, The Route of the Great Western, Dodge City Cattle Trail, mixed the romanticized term Great Western with the authentic name Dodge City. The Texas State Historical Association is the primary organization disputing this 1960s origin claim, asserting that Great Western Trail was indeed used during the active trail days. However, a detective-like examination of their own primary sources reveals that this assertion falls apart under scrutiny. Texas State Historical Association Evidence 1. The Cook Narrative. The TSHA references John R. Cook's 1907 book, The Border and the Buffalo, which states, the gap of the Wichita Mountains where the Great Western Cattle Trail crossed. This interpretation is misguided. The phrase is descriptive, not a proper noun. Great here simply serves as an adjective, similar to how contemporary maps refer to the region as the Great American Desert. Cook was merely describing a large trail, not naming it. Texas State Historical Association evidence too. The Lampman Book. The TSHA's strongest and most misleading piece of evidence comes from Clinton Park's Lampman's account of his 1878 cattle drive, later published in 1939 in The Great Western Trail. While the account dates back to 1878, the title was assigned 61 years later by his New York publisher, G. P. Putnam Sons, during an era that glorified romanticized Western Tales. Thus, it's a 20th century marketing title rather than a historical name from the 19th century. Ultimately, evidence for the term Great Western Trail in the 19th century is non-existent. It was a 20th century fabrication birthed in academia in 1965 and then retroactively justified through misinterpretation of book titles and descriptive language from that era. This embellishment from the 20th century has led to a cascade of historical misunderstandings. Ironically, despite its own research highlighting the name's 1960s origin, the National Park Service now officially refers to the Great Western Trail. This usage stems not from historical accuracy, but from a political mandate established by the 2009 Omnibus Public Land Management Act, which has solidified this 20th century myth. To add to the confusion, there is also a second Great Western Trail. In 1990, a completely separate 4,500-mile recreational route, a network of hiking and backcountry trails, was established in Utah and Arizona, adopting the same name. This situation has created an absurd historical feedback loop where two distinct routes, one a 19th-century cattle pathway, the other a 20th century hiking trail, share an identical and inaccurate name. The feud that started in 1931 ultimately reached a resolution. After 1936, the original granite monument at Don's Crossing underwent careful modifications. The disputed line, referencing Ackley's Longhorn Chisholm Trail, was taken out. And alongside it, the state of Texas placed a smaller marker dedicated to George W. Saunders, president of the old-time Trail Drivers Association, who kept the record straight. Once the historical record is cleared of 20th century myths, the truth becomes clear. The term Great Western Trail is merely an embellishment, born out of 1960s academic branding and the romanticism of 1930s publishers. Its main historical justifications stem from misinterpretations of 20th century sources. The individuals who traveled the trail referred to it with straightforward practical names, reflecting its nature in the 19th century. The Dodd City Trail, the Fort Griffin Trail, or simply the Western Trail. With this in mind, the exclusive use of the Western Cattle Trail name is justified for three key reasons. Number one, historical accuracy. This term is the most exact and defensible, honoring the common 19th-century term Western, while clearly indicating its purpose as a cattle trail. This clarity also differentiates it from the modern recreational Great Western Trail in Utah. 2. Historiographical purity. Adopting this name rejects the academic rebranding of the 20th century, Great, and avoids the historical errors stemming from competitive promotion efforts like Longhorn Chisholm. 3. Respect for the drovers. This designation honors the spirit of George W. Saunders and the Old Time Trail Drivers Association. These men fought not for an elaborate name, but for the right one. By adopting the Western Cattle Trail, we pay tribute to their efforts and ensure we keep the record straight.