The Storyteller's Trail: Dobie, Collison, and the Shadow on the Plains

Author's Note: Mike King​

While it may seem otherwise at times, this is a work of nonfiction. Anything found within quotation marks is drawn from historical documents, including diaries, letters, memoirs, and other artifacts. Descriptions of gestures, glances, smiles, or other facial expressions are sourced from eyewitness accounts. As one scholar aptly noted, history is a vibrant landscape filled with surprises. 

This narrative, pieced together from archival records, centers on two individuals and one significant trail: one man who regarded history as a collection of verifiable facts, and another who viewed it as a captivating story. This is the tale of the line that divides their perspectives.

The Wickedest City in America ​

In 1873, the atmosphere in southwestern Kansas was laced with a unique combination of dust, the scent of curing hides, and a metallic tang. The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad had arrived the previous year, in 1872, laying its tracks across the plains like a surgeon's careful stitch. The town, initially named "Buffalo City," had been renamed Dodge City in a hurried and almost tumultuous fashion.
At this point in time, Dodge City had not yet claimed its title as the "Queen of Cowtowns." That recognition would come later, along with a transformed economy. In 1873, Dodge City was primarily a hub for buffalo, where the main shipments involved not longhorns but vast quantities of hides brought in by hunters. The arrival of the railroad opened up a direct route to eastern markets, and the town itself became a frantic testament to urgency, characterized by "one-story frame buildings" hastily erected, often "positioned askew on their owners' property." Front Street, the bustling main thoroughfare, was a chaotic split flanking the new tracks, known as a place where "the business of vice thrived."
Both supporters and detractors agreed on one thing: it was the "wickedest little city in America." This title was hard-earned; in 1872, with a population of just five hundred, Dodge City recorded at least twenty-five murders, leading to "a murder rate of five per hundred residents." It was said, with a grim sort of pride, that only in Dodge could a person "break all ten commandments in one day, die with his boots on, and be laid to rest in the infamous Boot Hill Cemetery."
Law enforcement was a distant luxury, located seventy-five miles away. The city's straightforward economy, geared to "support the buffalo hunters," revolved around "drinking, gambling, and prostitution." Saloons, dance halls, and brothels dominated the commercial landscape. Even the town's mayor, James H. "Dog" Kelley, owned the Alhambra Saloon. The legendary lawman Bat Masterson, who would arrive later, noted that gambling "not only stood as the principal and most profitable industry of the town but was also regarded as one of the most respectable."
This was the documented, verifiable portrayal of Dodge City in 1873—a raw, violent, and chaotic center for buffalo hunters, where streets brimmed with vice and the future as a major cattle terminus was still three years away. The significant stockyards and the booming cattle trade would truly emerge only in 1876.
Into this precise historical moment, a story would unfold: the tale of a seventeen-year-old Englishman and a vast herd of longhorns, a narrative of the inaugural drive up a new trail. It was an enticing story—perhaps, too enticing.

The Story-Catcher of Austin

In stark contrast to the clamor of Dodge City, James Frank Dobie found himself lost in reflection amid the quiet of Austin. Described as a man “astride two worlds,” he was born on a cattle ranch in Live Oak County but transitioned to life as an English instructor at the University of Texas by the 1920s. While he engaged with British literature in the classroom, his thoughts often drifted back to the wild brush country of Texas.

Dobie was fueled by a profound concern: a deep-seated anxiety about the erosion of cultural heritage. Growing up surrounded by tales of the frontier, he soaked in the “oral storytelling tradition” that defined Texas. He vividly recalled accounts of renegade Longhorns that “busted out of northern stockyards and traveled 800 miles to return home,” and of vaqueros who “encountered ghosts as real as Hamlet’s father.”
As he taught British verse, Dobie worried that much of Texas's rich cultural legacy, much of it unwritten, was at risk of fading away. This apprehension spurred him into action, igniting a mission to become a new kind of scholar. He took on the role of secretary for the Texas Folklore Society, a position he held for twenty-one years. His goal wasn’t just to “preserve” this heritage within “libraries and museums,” but to “bring it to life.” Over time, he earned the moniker "Storyteller of the Southwest."
To do justice to these tales, Dobie believed he must step outside the confines of traditional academic history. He “rebelled against convention,” famously opting not to pursue a doctoral degree. He shared a thought that reflected his philosophy: “The average PhD thesis is nothing but a transference of bones from one graveyard to another.”
Dobie held little interest in “bones” or cold hard facts; he was captivated by the living narratives. While biographer Steven L. Davis might have labeled him a folklorist, Dobie didn’t conform to the image of a “scientific folklorist” overly focused on evidence. His open-minded approach led him to distinguish clearly between two different paths. He confided to historian C. L. Sonnichsen, who, according to some accounts, felt slighted by Dobie’s perspective.
“But I believe,” Dobie explained, “that when you write history, you must stick to the facts. When you’re telling a story, though, it has to be a good one.” This belief became the cornerstone of what it meant to be the “Storyteller of the Southwest.” The divide was clear: facts were part of history—a sterile graveyard of bones—while a story had to capture the audience. As a cultural preservationist and “progressive activist,” Dobie viewed a “good story” as a crucial tool for saving Texas’s cultural inheritance from being lost to time. An “accurate historian,” the term later used by academics to describe what Dobie was not, might be bound by conflicting facts, but a person with a “liberated mind” was free to shape the narrative.
To cultivate Texas literature, Dobie sought more than mere “bones.” He needed captivating stories and extraordinary storytellers. It was then that he discovered the perfect one.

The Englishman

Frank Collison is a name that stands out. To J. Frank Dobie, he was the quintessential figure of the frontier—a romantic archetype that Dobie revered. In his writings, Dobie painted a vivid portrait of Collison, describing him as “one of the most powerful men I have ever met,” and highlighting how he arrived in Texas as a young man shortly after the Civil War had ended.
Collison captivated his audience not only with his physical presence but also with his literary flair. An “educated Englishman,” he made his way to Texas in 1872 at just seventeen years old, making him an ideal storyteller. He wasn’t merely a rugged cowboy; he brought with him “the perspective of civilization,” as Dobie noted. Most significantly, he was an Englishman infused “with imagination and a thirst for primitive nature.” In many ways, Collison was a character in his own right; his life could easily fill a compelling narrative.

Yet, a “scientific folklorist” might hesitate to fully accept Dobie’s admiration at face value. A glance into historical archives reveals a more complex—perhaps less reliable—image of Frank Collison as a chronicler. He claimed to have “started writing about the Old West at the age of seventy-nine.” This wasn't a spontaneous diary swirling with the dust of the trail, but rather a reminiscence crafted over sixty years after the events, filtered through a lifetime of experiences.

In addition, his writings weren't scholarly works; they consisted of “a series of articles published in the popular magazine Ranch Romances.” His memoir, “Life in the Saddle”, came out posthumously in 1963 and was “Edited and arranged by Mary Whatley Clarke.”
By the standards of “accurate history,” these writings do not qualify as primary sources. They are late-in-life reflections in a romance magazine, edited long after Collison's passing.
The telltale sign lies in the assessment from the Handbook of Texas Online, an institution dedicated to factual history—something Dobie often found sterile. While it concedes that Collison's insights into the cattle industry and the frontier “make a significant contribution to our understanding of the Southwest frontier,” it also includes an important caveat: “...despite the fact that Collison was known for occasional exaggeration.”

This was the man Dobie chose to spotlight—a 79-year-old narrator known for his “occasional exaggeration,” yet brimming with “a lust for primitive nature.” Rather than being a flaw, this tendency toward exaggeration became his hallmark, making his accounts “agreeable, if loose,” and securing his reputation as a good storyteller.
The narrative that Dobie would elevate, one that would ultimately shape the mythology of the West, was Collison's account of a singular cattle drive. Collison claimed it was “the first trip up the Great Western Trail,” a journey he said took place in 1873.

The Two Trails

This is the pivotal moment when two worlds meet: on one side, the factual account of the Storyteller of the Southwest, and on the other, the lore surrounding the "transference of bones" from an archive. As with any thorough investigation, we need to establish a timeline. The narrative unfolds as a story of two trails, one rooted in fact and the other steeped in folklore, running parallel yet divided by a crucial year.

The A-Plot: The Lytle Drive, 1874 (The Fact)

In the "late winter" of 1873, a rancher from South Texas named John T. Lytle secured an important U.S. government contract. With the Red River War on the horizon, the Sioux, relocated to the Red Cloud Agency in Nebraska, were in desperate need of food. Lytle’s job was to "supply beef for the Sioux."
He was tasked with delivering 3,500 head of "large, aged steers" from South Texas to Camp Robinson, Nebraska, with a strict deadline of "August 1, 1874." This endeavor marked the inception of the Western Trail. On March 16, 1874, Lytle set forth with his "first trail outfit," consisting of "eighteen men, including a cook and two seasoned horse wranglers with 100 horses."
This journey was more than just a trail; it was a mapping expedition through "unknown country." The archival records, derived from the accounts of Lytle’s drovers, provide the "bones" of the odyssey—gritty, visceral details. They "beat out a trail," crossing the Llano River at "Beef Trail Crossing" and the San Saba River at "Pegleg Crossing." They found their way out of the Hill Country at "Cow Gap."
Upon reaching Fort Griffin, the crew was so unfamiliar with the surrounding terrain that the government had to assign them a military guide, Champ Means, who was well-versed in the landscape and its water sources. This region was one of "tenuous peace," cutting directly through Comanche territory. Some of Lytle's cowboys bore the scars of personal loss to Comanche raiders. Meanwhile, the Comanches themselves were starving, living on "wormy flour" and "diseased beef" supplied by government rations. Lytle and his trail bosses had to negotiate safe passage, often offering "a few beeves" in return for slow movement across the fertile grasslands.
Lytle's herd progressed at about "fifteen miles each day," navigating the dry stretches of Nebraska between the Platte rivers. By August 1, 1874, they met their deadline, delivering the herd to the Red Cloud Agency "with no loss of cattle." This marked the first drive up the  Western Trail. The year was 1874, the destination was Nebraska, and the mission was to fulfill a government contract. The "cowtown" of Dodge City was a brief stop along the way, merely a point on the map validated by Lytle's journey, but it was not his final destination.

Officers quarters and cannons at Fort Griffin. The post was established in 1867 downstream from old Camp Cooper. Photo courtesy of Lawrence Jones, III.

The B-Plot: The Collison "Drive," 1873 (The Story)

Now, we turn our attention to the narrative championed by J. Frank Dobie. This version centers on the tale of "Englishman Frank Collinson's account of the first trip up the Great Western Trail," explicitly setting the year as 1873. The destination is implied to be the new railhead at Dodge City.
The contradiction is striking and immediate. If Lytle and his team were busy "beating out a trail" in 1874, guided by Champ Means through "unknown country," then what trail was Frank Collison traversing in 1873? If Lytle was indeed the first to blaze the trail, then Collison's claims must be called into question. Furthermore, if Collison was on a cattle drive in 1873, where was he headed? As we’ve established, the "wickedest little city" of Dodge was then a buffalo town, with its cattle-shipping infrastructure yet to be established.
This stands as the central flaw in the "good story." The facts—the "bones"—simply do not align. The timeline is off by a year, the trail doesn’t exist in the way described, and the destination is misaligned. At this point, a diligent historian might simply note the discrepancy, marking it in red ink and dismissing the account.
However, a deeper exploration of the archive reveals a subtler truth—a "smoking gun" hidden in plain sight within the very snippet that supports the Collison narrative. The excerpt states: "Lytle hired Collinson as a drover in December 1873 to help gather longhorns."

The missing piece of the puzzle is readily apparent. Lytle’s drive in 1874 was a monumental logistical operation that began with an equally monumental prologue: the "gathering" of thousands of "free-ranging longhorns" from across the Nueces Strip. This gathering kicked off in late 1873, during which Frank Collison played a role. Hired by Lytle in December 1873, he was indeed part of the "first trip" if we include the lengthy and arduous process of assembling the herd.

What transpired next is a classic case of embellishment by a 79-year-old "exaggerator" writing for "Ranch Romances." Decades later, Collison effortlessly blended the 1873 gathering with the 1874 trail-blazing into a cohesive, heroic narrative—essentially merging two distinct events into one more engaging story. It was a minor "exaggeration," a "loose" retelling—a "good story," indeed. And J. Frank Dobie, the master Storyteller, let it stand.

A Liberated Mind

The academic consensus that J. Frank Dobie wasn't an "accurate historian" is spot on. However, this conclusion overlooks a crucial aspect; it confuses Dobie's intentions with what some perceive as shortcomings.
Dobie’s choice to embrace the Collison narrative—the "1873" story—wasn’t a blunder; it was rooted in his philosophy.
A "scientific folklorist" would have felt bound by the facts from 1874 Lytle while an "accurate historian" would have been driven to clarify Collison's mix-up, distinguishing between the 1873 "gathering" and the 1874 "drive." This historian would have zeroed in on John T. Lytle, his government contract, and his military guide—the key components of the operation.
But Dobie’s mind was "liberated." The inscription on his headstone reads: "I have come to value liberated minds as the supreme good of life on earth." This liberation wasn’t just political—although he was a progressive activist advocating for the integration of the University of Texas in the 1940s—it extended to how he viewed knowledge. It signified a freeing from dull facts.
For Dobie, the heart of Collison's story resonated much more profoundly with Texas's cultural heritage than the strict logistical account offered by Lytle.
Which narrative was "better"?
A tale about a government contract aimed at feeding the Sioux? Or an account of eighteen men, a cook, and a military guide trudging "fifteen miles each day" to meet an August 1 deadline? Those are the "bones" of history.
Or was it about a "young vigor" Englishman, just seventeen years old, who possessed "the perspective of civilization" along with a "lust for primitive nature," stepping into the unknown to carve the first trail?
Dobie made his choice. He opted for the "good story." He embraced the myth.

Epilogue: The Campfire and the Archive

In the end, history comes in two forms.
The first type lives in the "catacombs lined with the remains of dead trees," curated by the "accurate historian." This version of history is preserved by academics and stored in repositories like the Wittliff Collections and the Harry Ransom Center. It is made up of documented facts, primary sources, footnotes, and thorough revisions. In this narrative, the Western Trail was established by John T. Lytle in 1874, representing the history of "bones."
Then, there’s the second kind of history.
On a "soft autumn evening," one can wander into a ghost town in South Texas called Oakville, where a festival known as "Dobie Dichos" ("Sayings of Dobie") takes place. Here, the stage is fashioned from the bed of a rusted old pickup truck, and the air is "licked" by the "flames of a campfire." An audience gathers in their lawn chairs, and "as the sun sets, we pay tribute to Dobie by sharing his works."
While the academic consensus holds that J. Frank Dobie was not an "accurate historian," in the grand scheme, that distinction loses its importance. The "accurate historians" may have triumphed in the "graveyard" of the archive.
Yet, J. Frank Dobie truly captured the spirit of the campfire.
The captivating tale of Frank Collison’s 1873 journey—with all its "exaggerations" and "loose" interpretations—lives on in the popular imagination, eclipsing the factual details of Lytle's 1874 contract. This was Dobie’s mission from the start: to breathe life into that heritage. He succeeded in crafting Texas literature precisely because he was not bound by the constraints of being an "accurate historian."