Recollections of Early Texas (26 page)

He became conscious again just as the Indians were making a second charge. He struggled to his feet, and ran with all his little remaining strength for a thicket, at the same time trying to stanch the blood from his wounded temple by
holding his overshirt closely against the wound as he ran. He crawled into the depths of a dense thicket and lay on the bare ground, securely hidden from the savages; at the same time the dust and sticks on the ground stopped the bleeding in his wounded side. The Indians surrounded his hiding place, knocked around in the brush, but for some reason did not enter the thicket, probably thinking Perry was armed and feared to risk one of their own to kill an already seriously wounded man.

He waited until dark and then started toward the roaring of water which he could hear, but every time he would get up and start he would faint from pain and weakness, so that he did not reach water till daybreak—all night going about two hundred yards! Then he washed the blood and dirt from his face, drank, crossed the stream, and crawled into a hole at the root of a large tree that had been blown down.

That night he started for San Antonio, a distance of 120 miles, wounded, unarmed, and without provisions. In spite of weakness and pain he persevered the first day until he was three miles on his way, then being utterly prostrated had to lie and rest. When able to proceed he went on at intervals, getting only two or three miles at a stretch till he reached San Antonio. On the seventh night just at dark he reached the city, more dead than alive, having traveled all seven days with no food except three prickly pear apples and a handful of mesquite beans.

With every attention his recovery was a very slow and painful one, keeping him in bed about three months. His clothes were pierced by twenty-one arrow holes when he reached home.

Rufus Perry is an intimate friend and acquaintance, an associate veteran, and for more than twenty years was a citizen of Bastrop. I have gathered this account from his own lips, and can vouch for its truth. In giving the details of this
adventure, he always mentioned the kind and untiring attention he received from two women of San Antonio, one a German, the other a Mexican. The former often shed tears over his crippled and wounded condition. Perry prior to this was a good looking man, but now after the lapse of forty years, still bears a drawn and scarred face, a twitching eye, and walks with the aid of a cane—all the result of the Comanche arrows.

Achlin reached San Antonio on the morning of the eighth day, having fared like Perry on prickly pear apples and mesquite beans. He was, however, not so mutilated and battered up as his comrade. He was almost well in two weeks.

CHAPTER XII

Hunting and Social Life

I have often realized that the early circumstances of my life, together with an instinctive fondness for nature and her wildest, most secluded spots, have made me closely akin to Indians or Arabs in taste and habits of life. Looking back to early times in Texas, I recall with a thrill of sympathy, not unmixed with envy, the evident pleasure my father found amid the wild scenes of our young republic. Even now, though time has dimmed my eyes, frosted my head, racked and somewhat enfeebled my frame, my heart remains unchanged in this respect, so that in the midst of business cares and family responsibilities there comes to me at times a restless longing for the wildwood, which nothing can satisfy except a few days' camping amid scenes as much like those early ones as I can reach. Of course, I would not, if I could, stay the hand of the progress which is doing such mighty work for Texas, yet I must in honesty confess to a pang of regret and sadness when I realize that the good old bear-hunting days are but things of a dead and buried past.

We enjoyed life then. But perhaps our joys were not derived simply from those grand old Texas hunting grounds. There and then we were rich in the possession of youth, strength, and hope, with the “wide, wide world” of life before us! Now as we stand on the shady side and look back, we
see not only vanished forests and pleasures, but also time and opportunities that can come but once in a lifetime. Still we can but remember what a country this Colorado Valley was then, and even now when in Austin I can almost for a time forget the sights of the city by becoming absorbed in recalling how I have chased mule-eared rabbits along where main street now lies.

I remember just how I felt as I stood amid these wilds, as tough as a bear's cub, young and strong and armed with bowie knife, tomahawk, and derringer pistol, besides my rifle, which was a very fine one. By the way, I gave 300 acres of land for that gun, and it was generally pronounced a good bargain. The land now lies in Lee County and could not now (1886) be bought for $20 an acre. I had from earliest childhood quickly and eagerly caught at every scrap of woodcraft, and under the teaching of old “Indian Phillip,” was an adept sleuth in the science of bee hunting. I never saw a man who could beat me coursing bees.

While riding along on the prairie, I have seen a bee soaring past me heavily loaded, and have chased it a full half-mile. Even on foot I have kept in sight of them as their course would be impeded by a strong south wind, and they flew with seeming labor close to the ground, occasionally lighting as if to rest. Association, surroundings—every circumstance of my boyhood combined to feed and foster my passion for hunting and I reveled in the rich field which was open to me, free and full of game.

I believe I could imitate every sound one ever hears upon the broad plains or in the dense forest. I have by howling summoned packs of hungry wolves, which would come as if called by one of their own species. I could gobble like a turkey, cause owls to answer and come in gunshot, and reproduce the squall of a young bear.

Along in June or early July a few of us were always ready
to start. With only a few simple preparations, bread and coffee enough to last us several days, we went out determined to have venison, honey, and “fun,” and it was seldom, if ever, that we failed. We were always careful to camp near good water, generally took an ax to cut our bee trees, but never carried vessels of any kind for the honey; this we saved in a “cased” deer hide. This is doubtless a thing unknown among our modern hunters, so I will describe how we constructed our honey vessel.

Of course, we first killed the deer and hung it by the head to the limb of a tree, then taking a knife we would cut through the skin around his neck just above his shoulders. Two of us would now take hold of the skin and gradually pull or strip it down to his heels, stopping at the bullet holes to tie them up tightly with buckskin strings, putting tiny little pegs to keep the strings from coming off. Then when off and turned wrong side out with all the holes tied up, we would blow it up, inflate it till it would be perfectly tight, and lay it thus stretched in the hot sunshine to dry.

This required only a short time, when it would be clean and dry and ready to hold the wild honey which we were sure to find. And in the meantime we would have our scaffold ready for barbecuing our venison. Ah, what meat we would have on these excursions, fat and tender and juicy and browned!

With these preliminary preparations, the most scientific bee hunters would then strike out for a bee course, with or without bait. Soon we would find and cut the bee tree and fill our deerskin case, which would hold from fifteen to twenty gallons and weighed nearly two hundred pounds. Then bearing our sweet wild burden into camp, we would hang the case up by the neck to a tree and whenever we wished to draw therefrom, we would simply untie a leg and the pure stream would flow at our will.

Then and there we had feasting and pleasure better than that of kings, as we rested and chatted, surrounded by everything wild and picturesque and free, relishing as only a hunter can relish, the venison, wild honey, bread, and coffee.

The American Field,
¹
dated April 17, 1886, contains an interesting “Texas Pecan Hunt,” by “Foxhorn,” now of New Orleans, formerly of Austin. He begins by stating a fact I well remember, “Regularly every fall the settlers would organize what was called ‘a pecan hunt,' the object of which was to gather pecans and ‘lay in' as much buffalo, bear, and deer meat as would last their families during the winter. The hospitality of these frontiersmen was unbounded, and as immigration was pouring in constantly, it was rarely that any one had a surplus of supplies remaining over.”

Foxhorn's pecan hunt occurred in the 1840's, headed by John C. Duval, one of the Mier men and one of Fannin's band, who when he was led out to be shot was unhurt at the first fire, but falling down feigned death until he saw an opportunity to escape.

It is pleasant for us who have been all along there, to follow Foxhorn's hunting party from Swisher's Tavern, across the Colorado near the mouth of Shoal Creek—on over the rolling prairies that extended from the Colorado to Onion Creek. Not only are all the scenes and localities familiar to us, but Foxhorn was accompanied on this hunt by some of our oldest and earliest acquaintances—Bob Pace, Captain Grumbles and his son Perry, Tom Collins, and others.
²

He speaks of the “would-be typical Texan” of today and shows how different he is in appearance from that of the pioneer settler of our state. He justly says,

The broad Mexican sombrero covering long shaggy locks, short jackets, a pistol belt and an arsenal of sixshooters attached, long topped boots, jingling spurs—all are inventions of a later day. In that age no one thought of his personal appearance, as it was not a time for stage get-up, marrying, or giving in marriage. I doubt if there is now living—and there are many of them yet to be found in and around Austin—a man who can exactly describe the appearance and makeup of such men as John Duval, Bob Pace, Tom Collins, [James] Monroe Swisher,* “Old Rip” Ford, and other Indian fighters of those days.

But I must come back to my own personal recollections of early Texas hunting days. I now propose to give a few items and incidents connected with buffalo hunting in my young manhood. One of the hardest, most pleasant, and most exciting hunts I ever had occurred along in 1843 or 1844, after immigration and adventure had driven Indians and game further west, and when buffalo were very wild and scarce in our vicinity. Indeed, the object of our present excursion was the finding of pleasure, honey, and venison, and we had no hope of finding buffalo in the locality to which we went.

A few words here as to what I have seen and do know of this animal may not be uninteresting. No meat is more palatable and better than good fat buffalo meat, and it was a matter of considerable importance in those times to kill and cure the year's supply in season. They are very easily killed, but the head of the buffalo is the very last place at which to aim in shooting, for the mane or “mop” often be
comes so clotted or matted with sand and mud that it serves as a kind of armor or shield—indeed, an ordinary rifle ball could not penetrate through this mop and the
double skull to the brain.
If we could “get the wind of them” we could sometimes kill four or five at a time, and when they were bayed by a pack of dogs, they would circle around in wild, aimless terror or fury, never noticing our gun reports, until we would perhaps kill the whole herd. They were guided principally by the sense of smell, and therefore nearly always fed toward or against the wind.

Where ground is smooth and firm and the herd is large one can on almost any horse run upon and catch a buffalo, but in rough, uneven country it is almost an impossibility for one on horseback to catch up. Headlong the great body plunges forward, without turn or pause no matter what obstruction or difficulty presents itself—over bluffs, hollows, saplings, caloes [callows?]—everything! And there is no earthly chance to break down a buffalo which is in medium order and fresh at starting. It is wonderful how long and how fast they can run. As they go in a
one-sided
gallop, they seem to use only the strength of one side at a time, thereby saving the resources of the other side for prolonged speed and danger.

He sheds his heavy coat of wool every spring, and in summer walks forth a veritable specimen of naked and ugly hugeness. Then in winter he takes on a warm new coat—always seeming uglier with each successive change. The wool made knitting thread; the mop made ropes, girths, bridle-reins; the hide was sometimes dressed and used for “lariats” and moccasin soles; and the meat was delicious. I have often been impressed with the fact that nature holds and dispenses some of her richest treasures and rarest delicacies for those who throw themselves dependent upon her bounty, ignoring luxuries and the provisions of art.

But we will return to these ugly wild cattle which once dotted our broad prairies. They were so ugly, yet they were never dangerous, except when wounded. Then they became furious with pain and terror and nothing was more terrible. Even now some of us get together and laughingly recall a somewhat serious experience of two of our acquaintances—James Manor* and Ham [Hamilton] White,* out on a buffalo hunt just below Austin.

They had wounded a young buffalo very badly and were trailing or hunting for him among the dogwood swamps and thickets. As they went around one of these thickets they suddenly came upon the wounded buffalo lying down near them. It arose and took after them at such speed that they could take time for nothing but flight. White ran fastest and succeeded in taking refuge behind one of the thickets whence he could in safety watch the race. The mad beast kept after Jim Manor, the nearest man, who was now in extreme danger as he could almost feel the breath of the furious animal hard behind him. Finally he dropped his gun, and as a last resort concluded to spring for the limb of a tree ahead of him. Just as he succeeded in grasping it, the buffalo struck the limb and jarred him loose. The huge animal rushed forward in its wild fury and could not turn very fast, so that Manor succeeded in putting the body of the tree between himself and his mad pursuer. There he dodged around and around, evading by the main strength and awkwardness of the formidable plunges and thrusts of the buffalo, as it hooked first on one side and then on the other. Off a few steps in security, White was laughing violently at the terrible predicament of his fellow hunter. At length, he called out, “Shall I shoot him, Jim?” Speaking in a loud whisper, Manor gasped, “Yes!” So the buffalo was shot and Manor rescued from his perilous situation, but he could never appreciate the ridiculous part of the scene that aroused White's laughter,
and in considerable anger assured White that he felt very much inclined to shoot him for indulging in laughing at so unreasonable a time.