Recollections of Early Texas (25 page)

An amusing incident occurred in this run. As the Indians retreated, fighting their pursuers, an Irishman by the name of Donnelly, who at home kept “Bachelor's Hall” with a Mr. Perry, was chasing a young squaw and seemed to have “nor eye, nor ear, nor mind” for anything else. At length, he caught her and tied her securely despite the most violent fighting and struggling, and with a triumphant air exclaimed, “Bejabers, and I'll carry you home for our housekeeper!”

Having thus secured her, he continued the chase, leaving her till his return, but in the meantime some stragglers, supposed to have been Mexican soldiers, found and killed her, so he was deprived of his prospective “housekeeper.” The scene, combined with the droll tone and manner of earnest Pat Donnelly, afforded considerable amusement to the soldiers, some of whom still laughingly recall the circumstances.

The chase was continued some distance, and they did not reach the Comanche village on their return until next evening. They were tired and hungry, having neither halted nor eaten for more than a day, and we may imagine how they enjoyed finding immense quantities of food all ready for them—Indian bread, made of pecans, honey, and mesquite beans, a kind of fruit cake, and what seemed to be fine, fat buffalo meat. Our men ate heartily, almost ravenously, asking no questions, and were considerably refreshed after their long run and fast. Imagine their feelings, when around the camp they found heads, tails, and hides, abundant proof of the fact that they had feasted not upon buffalo, but mule meat!

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” and a rest of
twenty-four hours in this Indian village fixed its locality and the lovely picture it afforded upon the minds of many of the soldiers. A beautiful valley of prairie land, extending toward the Rio Grande, sometimes shooting into little peaks or mountains, and dotted with the snow-white wigwams made of dressed buffalo hides. The village was comprised of at least three hundred of these wigwams, and the horses and mules, which had been stolen and herded there by the Comanches, were estimated by the officers to number about six hundred head. These were, however, nearly all regained, as the Indians could run in all during the night and cut them off unhindered. This our men were powerless to prevent, because their horses were broken down and change was impossible—the stolen horses being all wild and unbroken.

Ever and anon, throughout the day and night the Comanche squaws would ride into their village bearing burdens of pecans, mesquite beans, and wild berries, not dreaming of the tragedy which had taken place there, as they had searched the forest intent upon collecting ingredients for their wild bread. When they would perceive the army of white men, their fright and dismay may be imagined, and peals of hearty laughter would follow them, as, “without pausing for reflection,” they would throw themselves from their mules and make for the bottom land, leaving their hard day's gleaning behind.

The campaign not being ended, it was an item of paramount importance to save the horses, so it was strictly against all orders for our men to try to carry off anything, no matter how valuable. Some of the boys, however, did pack as many buffalo robes as they could on a mule, and then on top of the heap they securely fastened a huge brass kettle, whereupon the mule stampeded and cut off and frightened a large herd of horses. The race which followed formed a queer and
comical scene. As far as the eye could reach the panic-stricken horses fled in wild terror and confusion, followed by the mule with its brazen burden.

Before leaving the encampment everything was burned, and it really seemed hard to sacrifice so much that was valuable—about ten thousand dollars' worth of property besides the horses.

On return march they changed direction where Uvalde is now situated, and going up through Sabinal Valley crossed the mountains to the head of the Llano, down that stream to the Pedernales, on Pinta Trail leading into San Antonio. Homeward bound now and yet no Indians. Meanwhile, the soldiers were required to preserve all possible quiet, and it may be imagined that they were severely tantalized as they rode along and saw deer in gunshot all the time, and yet no shooting allowed. Finally the temptation was too strong for some. Nine men, among whom were Dan Grady, Creed Taylor,
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and William H. Kelly, concluded to “slip off” from the command and enjoy a little hunting and a bite of venison despite orders.

Time went merrily with them for a while, as they amused themselves killing deer and securing the choice bits, until toward night they selected a strong position for camp and fared sumptuously on the spoils of the day. Supper over, they made ready for a nice, quiet time of smoking and resting about the campfire, when suddenly about fifty Indians charged upon them, blowing their war whistles, yelling and making every conceivable noise, in order to stampede the horses. The camp was in the edge of a thicket, situated in
the bend of a creek, and the main body of Indians charged upon the rear, the thicket intervening, while two warriors rode around in front to cut off the horses.

Dan Grady and Creed Taylor ran around and drove all but three of the horses back into camp, at the same time firing upon the two warriors, one of whom was killed by Taylor. Immediately the entire band collected about the warrior who was shot, and then commenced a fight that continued until midnight. Nine against fifty and no loss of life on our side! Thus powder and ball outsped and kept at bay the fleet and ofttimes fatal arrow, though the savages lingered near a long time, filling the air and forest with the sound of yell, war whoop, and whistle, which could be heard for three miles, as at last they went slowly off.

Never did men hold more earnest council than was held in the little clump of bushes by our nine hunters as the Indians departed. Behold how quickly change the scenes and circumstances of life, even in a single day! We imagine the sport of the day, the fine supper paled into insignificance and aroused but feeble emotions compared to the sensations of the nine as they stood in the darkness deliberating. By burning their packs and riding the mules they were all mounted once again, despite the loss of their three horses, and at last they ventured forth with guard before and behind, changing at intervals, till at daylight they regained their command.

Their escapade had given them somewhat more serious fun than they had anticipated, besides the loss of their packs, and a severe reprimand from the commander.

Many of the raids and adventures of our early days here in Texas are thrice-told tales and yet when we old settlers read the accounts, especially if they be attempted record of our personal experience, or those of some intimate friend, we
miss little incidents here and there. These touches of reality are necessities in historical narration, just as salt, pepper, and sauce are essential to the right flavoring of soup, roast, and vegetables. Without these, history seems an endless maze of dates and figures—a long series of monotonous details which for sake of brevity and convenience might well be cut even shorter and abridged at every turn, until all the revolutions of the world's history, all the struggles and changes might be told in a brief chapter, with the little incidents all left out. Then San Jacinto and the Alamo and the thousand thrilling events in Texas history all would be concised into few words. We would read how Texas had some trials and came out all right, while many a hero whose heart's blood stained her virgin soil will sleep on in death, forgotten as a dream. Not so fast, dear friends! Wait till the old Texas veterans are all gone, then come with your dissecting knife and hash up the truth, taking just a little here and there. As long as memory lives in us, we will be always trying to fill up these vacuums so detrimental to a real conception of the true greatness of Texas, and so fatal to all genuine interest which in justice belongs to her history.

That Captain W. W. Hill commanded a company of Texas Rangers along in 1836 is well-known, and doubtless many have read brief sketches of some one of his campaigns, or perhaps all of them. Having often heard a full account of this campaign on the San Gabriel and always finding it interesting, I have obtained all its details from a member of the company, my old friend and comrade Rufus Perry, and submit it to our readers as worthy of attention. In the beginning I would, if possible, place before your eye two pictures or pen portraits of one man. One represents a young man—tall, muscular, erect—a perfect specimen of the strong and brave in young manhood. Dark eyes, bright with the fires of intelligence and enthusiasm gleam forth underneath the black
brows and lashes, while the waving masses of black hair fall in careless grace upon a smooth, broad forehead. This was young Rufus Perry. Now, after the lapse of forty years, we behold his handsome face all drawn and scarred, his eye distorted, and twitching while he walks with the aid of a cane—all the result of Comanche arrows back in the early days of Texas history.

But why mention these little items? Well, I believe every true and loyal Texan loves the brave old Texas soldiers wherever found—and here is one who suffered the next thing to death for the Lone Star. I give the narrative as nearly as possible in his own language:

Captain William Hill organized a company of between fifty and sixty men at Asa Mitchell's in July, 1836. We came along the Gotier Trace to Bastrop, thence to John Caldwell's ranch,
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where we found plenty of corn to feed our horses. From this point we proceeded to the San Gabriel, finding bee trees and lots of fish, then down a stream some distance we came to a high bluff where we struck an Indian trail making towards Cole's settlements, where the town of Independence now stands. We followed the comparatively fresh trail nearly two days and nights and overtook the Indians in thick post oak country.

About sundown we discovered the smoke of their campfire not very far off. Dismounting, we prepared to attack them in camp, but a straggling warrior hastened the issue by coming out and meeting us accidentally and unexpectedly. Of course, we killed him immediately but not before he had raised a war whoop, rousing his comrades to action.

We continued to advance, notwithstanding the fact of their being aroused and ready to meet us. We killed three and
wounded several whom we did not get. Andy Houston
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was the only man in our company who was wounded, he being struck in the wrist with an unspiked arrow. This occurred on a prong of the Yegua, twelve miles from the settlements.

We were somewhat surprised and puzzled just after the fight to see a member of our company, an old backwoodsman named Dave Lawrence, step up and cut off the thigh of one of the slain Indians. I asked him what he intended to do with it.

“Why,” he answered, “I am going to take it along to eat. If you don't get some game before noon tomorrow we'll need it!”

At sundown we camped about a mile below the battleground on a little creek. I doubt if any of the neighbors in Burleson County know how that little creek got its name of “Cannon Snap.” Thus it occurred on this very night in the summer of 1836 that a Portuguese, a dark, very dark man, so black that we called him “Nigger Biddy,” was placed on guard.

During the night he rushed in on our crowd exclaiming, “Oh! I heard a cannon snap!” Poor fellow, he was so much frightened that he magnified a twig's snapping or an owl's laughing into threatened danger. Then and there the little creek received its present name of “Cannon Snap.”

Next morning we marched to Yellow Prairie on the waters of the Brazos to old man Thompson's.
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The hospitable old gentleman furnished us beef and corn, a sumptuous dinner, so old Dave Lawrence did not have to eat his Indian meat. Turning up Little River we scouted about two months longer but found no more Indians.

In 1844 four of our fellow soldiers passed through an ordeal of suffering and danger that well deserves to be recorded among the sacrifices made for Texas in those
critical times. Jack Hays commanded a company of rangers, and having received news that Mexicans were trying to get some horses between the Nueces and the Rio Grande on Turkey Creek he detached Rufus Perry, Kit Achlin, John Carlin, and James Dunn to go out and investigate and stampede them.

They reached the Nueces and began to scout along its banks, Perry riding slowly along and taking note of the trails and woods, while the others he sent on ahead, advising them to select a high place for camp so that they could have a good view of the surrounding country and thus guard against surprise from Indians or Mexicans. Riding along alone he struck a horse trail, which he followed until he discovered that he himself was being followed. He then went on as if all was natural and joined his comrades in camp, which contrary to his advice they had pitched in a low brushy spot. He felt much dissatisfied and uneasy on account of their selection of camp and took his gun and went over on top of a hill to look around, but could see nothing.

After dinner Dunn and Carlin took the horses for water and went in bathing in the waters of the Nueces. Just as they had undressed for bathing, twenty-five or thirty Indians attacked Perry and Achlin back at camp. The first thing they knew the Comanches came upon them with a whoop. Achlin fired and then ran off afoot, leaving the horses. Just as Perry was in the act of firing he received an arrow in the shoulder, which forced him to drop his gun. He then drew a five-shooter and retreated for his horse, firing as they advanced upon him. A second arrow struck him in the temple, severing an artery, and a third struck his hip, going clear through his body. This he pulled out of his back. Just as he was firing his fourth shot he fainted from loss of blood.

When he regained his consciousness his first thought was to commit suicide to escape death from the savages. He
cocked his pistol and put it to his head, but paused, then discovered that he could get up. He made his way to the two men who were bathing. They had crossed the river, but came back when they saw Perry. In a second Achlin joined them, and pulled the arrow out of Perry's shoulder. They then began to make ready to run from a second attack, which they felt sure the Indians would make. Achlin tried to persuade them to take Perry behind on a horse, but they would not, probably thinking from his weak and suffering condition that he would die anyway—then, too, they were anxious to ensure their own escape and knew a wounded man could but impede their ride. He caught hold of the tail of one of their horses and was thus helped across the stream, when he again fainted. They must have supposed him dead, for they robbed him of his gun and pistol, and all left him to his fate.
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