Recollections of Early Texas (29 page)

So many interesting things used to happen, that even in this connection I could spin out incidents
ad infinitum.
About forty years ago now, Wylie Hill was at his gin, which stood near the big springs, and hearing something catch one of his hogs, he called his dogs. Setting them on the trail they treed something immediately, whereupon he holloed for me to bring my gun. By this time it was dark and I could barely see the outlines of a large panther as it crouched in the darkness and leaves of a post oak. I shot and the animal fell as if dead, but in an instant it rallied and we heard signs of a fresh and furious fight, as the dogs would bark and howl and yelp in the gloom. The night was a very dark one, and that hollow in that cedar brake could come nearer illustrating “a darkness to be felt” than any place I ever saw. True to the native fearlessness of his character, Colonel Hill went into the thick of the fight, in the thick darkness of the cedar brake, and killed the panther with his knife.

Another instance in his life was equally unusual. He happened to be in the pine hills across the river accompanied
by his dogs, but without a gun. They jumped a large bear and treed it. He pelted it out of the tree with rocks and with the dogs soon killed it.

A few years ago I overheard a young man—rather inexperienced in such matters, talking of having spent the night with the brave old soldier, and he laughingly alluded to these two adventures, declaring, “Mr. Wylie Hill must have been a wonderful hunter in his time!—to kill a panther in the dark with a knife and a bear with rocks!” He was a stranger to us all and evidently thought these adventures rather
too
marvelous, but I assured him that I knew them to be positive facts, being an eyewitness—at least being present. It was too dark for
eye
witnesses when the panther was killed.

In going over these little experiences of our early times here I am reminded of a familiar old acquaintance of those days, who was famous for barbecuing meats and serving fine dinners. He had been complimented upon this faculty, till he felt very complacent upon the subject, and once triumphantly asserted that he had more experience in that line than anybody, adding, “I know I have prepared and superintended at least four hundred Fourth of July dinners!”

Along in those times it was reported among us that “a Mexican Lion” haunted Iron Mountain, on the head of Sandy Creek, and we were all anxious for an opportunity to kill it. Jonathan Thomas McGehee
⁴
had been over at Gonzales on business with a Mr. Bonner and was coming back through the hills at the head of Brushy Creek. He had a splendid rifle and was on the alert, and was much excited when he heard a roaring or growling, which he was sure came from the Mexican Lion. Venturing toward the noise he saw the
animal, but it was so terrible he was afraid to shoot at it, and allowed it to go unmolested. Coming home, he met me first and said in some excitement, “I saw that Mexican Lion, John! Its tail was as long as that rail (ten feet), and its legs were as big around as my body!” I tried to persuade him to go back with me in search of the formidable creature, but he was compelled to go on home. As quickly as possible, my brother, Judge Eastland, and I, with dogs were upon the scene. Watch immediately struck the trail of the supposed Mexican Lion—treed it and I shot, killing it instantly, but it proved to be only a tremendously large panther. McGehee still believes that he saw the Mexican Lion, however.

When Colonel John S. Ford held his company of Rangers on the Rio Grande in 1858, he detailed a small squad of men under young Edward Burleson, Jr., to come in on the waters of the Nueces for the purpose, I think, of collecting money to defray the expenses of his company. Having attended to the business assigned them, they were on their way back to the Rio Grande, traversing an open country, when they discovered not very far away a band of Indians—a force about equal to their own. They advanced upon them, meanwhile trying to arrange or agree upon some plan for the impending fight. The Indians had only one or two guns and one of the Texans, James Carr,
⁵
a noted marksman, was appointed to do all the shooting, while his comrades were to load and hand him their guns. In this way they hoped to keep out of range of the enemy's arrows. As the little squad advanced, the Indians halted and prepared to meet their attack.

In excitement men sometimes forget or disregard everything, and instead of abiding by their decision or arrange
ment there was wild confusion and disorder, for the instant Carr dismounted, every man did likewise and made ready to fight. Seeing this, the Comanches charged right in among them, and a most terrible hand-to-hand struggle followed. Bow and arrow, six-shooter, and rifle—all were wielded with vigorous bravery, till finally all the Indians were killed except three or four. We lost only one man killed, Baker Barton, but all of our men were wounded except Warren Lyons,* some of them receiving several wounds.
⁶
James Carr, who still lives, was wounded three times—first through the thigh, then an arrow pinned his hand to the breech of his gun, and finally an arrow struck him in the side, which would have killed him had not a plug of tobacco in his roundabout pocket broken its force. Seldom have men fought more desperately, and never were soldiers more sore, or more exhausted, than these were after the struggle.

Warren Lyons, the one Ranger who escaped unhurt, did so by reason of his remarkable skill in dodging the arrows—a skill acquired by long association with the Indians.

Lyons had quite a romantic and adventurous experience in his early life which is very interesting. I think it was in the fall of 1836 that Warren, a mere boy seven or eight years old,
accompanied his father to the field where he was plowing. A band of Comanches came suddenly upon them and killed the father and captured the son. Time rolled on, and nothing being heard from the boy, he was almost forgotten, or at least seldom thought about. Nevertheless, the woman who was so suddenly bereft of husband and child watched and waited and hoped all along the dreary time, for surely nothing but positive proof could ever make a mother give up her child as dead.

Years afterward, when it was all “forgotten as a dream,” a party of surveyors under William S. Wallace went out on the San Saba, and having worked up the river several days, a few of them—Wylie Hill, Richard Cheek, George Hancock,* James L. Jobe,* and perhaps one or two others—separated from the main party, with an appointed place of rejoining them. One evening as they were riding along they saw in the distance something bright and shining, that at first perplexed them, as it gleamed and glistened in the sunlight. Very soon, however, they recognized the shields of Comanches, and we may perhaps imagine their feelings when a nearer approach revealed fifty or sixty of these warriors standing and apparently watching them. As quickly as possible the little body of men secured a good position for self-defense, and by the time the Indians were in gunshot they were stationed in a thicket under a steep mountain, awaiting the attack. Instead of the anticipated charge, however, the Indians halted and signified that they wanted to talk, asking for the captain of the white men. George Hancock was appointed to act as captain and went out to meet their chief, although some violently opposed his going, as they feared foul play.

The old chief, dismounting, met him on “halfway ground,” making many demonstrations of friendliness as he advanced, and gave him an earnest hugging when they met and
declared him “Big Chief.” Meanwhile all of the few whites came to the front in full view and prepared to fire at the slightest hostile movement. They soon realized their utter helplessness, though, for hearing a slight noise they looked around and were surprised to find that the brow of the overhanging mountain was almost covered with Indians, and thus they found themselves literally surrounded by a savage and hitherto merciless foe. No advantage was taken of the situation, however, and the chief proceeded to question Hancock very closely as to the number and whereabouts of the main body of surveyors, and at length proposed to accompany them on their way. So the little company of men found themselves riding along all mixed up with a large band of Comanches, and their sensations may have been somewhat peculiar as they realized the overpowering numbers of their volunteer traveling companions.

They accepted the situation as became brave men, and for a while proceeded upon their journey as if nothing unusual was transpiring. Darkness was fast coming on and the outlook was indeed a gloomy one, as no sign of Wallace and his company of surveyors cheered the hearts of our men. At length, hoping to receive an answer. Wylie Hill gave a keen, shrill halloo or whoop peculiarly his own. Seldom can the human voice make a sound which could be heard at so great a distance. I can hear him now in memory, and believe I would have recognized the signal as his own anywhere in the wide world.

It delighted and amused the savages greatly and they insisted on his repeating it at intervals all along, at the same time trying to imitate the sound. Thus they rode on, and at last, as night settled upon the crowd, the burden of suspense grew unendurable. Hill but spoke what was passing in every man's mind as he said, “Boys, they are going to kill us certain, and we had better take the main bulge on them.”
Hitherto they had supposed that not one of the Comanches understood their language. Imagine their surprise when one of the warriors, speaking very good English, answered, “No, these Indians are not going to kill you!”

Turning in surprise Hill inquired, “Who are you? Where did you learn our language?”

Warren Lyons, for he it was, then gave them a brief account of his life among the Comanches—a life to which he had become not only reconciled, but even attached. So great is the power of habit and nature itself.

Finally Hill's halloo was heard and answered by Wallace and his men and guided by the sound all went into camp together. They collected about the same campfire, and “the lion and the lamb,” as it were, lay down in peace together, although one man, Ben Heines, refused to trust either Providence or Comanches and sat up the whole night long.

In the course of the conversation the chief, pretending to be entirely ignorant of their business in those parts, asked “What do all these hacks or blazes on the trees mean? Why do you cut them?” Upon being told that they had been bee hunting, he, in a kind but somewhat threatening manner, advised them to leave the woods alone and go home, saying, “This is our hunting ground, and you had better leave at once.”

Our men talked a good deal with Warren Lyons, who partially remembered his native tongue, but his long exile had dimmed all recollection of mother, home, and friends, and he seemed quite indifferent. Wylie Hill and others who knew his mother and relatives insisted on his at least making a visit home. The thought of leaving the Indians appeared to be a sad one to him; indeed, he would make no promise, and next morning went his way with the warriors, turning his back upon those of his own race without sign of hesitation or regret.

Not many months after this, Waymon Wells, a friend of the family, met and recognized Warren Lyons with a band of Comanches in San Antonio, and again every effort of argument and persuasion was used to induce him to come home. Pleading was more successful this time, and at last he consented to accompany Wells to his mother. Wells described their journey and the reunion of mother and son to me. As they came in sight of his old home, Mrs. Lyons was sweeping the front gallery, and the scene aroused emotion in the son, as he exclaimed, “That is my mother now! I remember her right there, sweeping in that way!”
⁷
Even then, however, in the strange and intense joy of such a meeting, he seemed shy and embarrassed, half-afraid of his own mother, as she gave him the welcome which only a mother could.

And now he stayed a while with her at the home of his infancy, settling, or trying to settle, into a new life, which was entirely out of harmony with his taste and habits as formed by his long and intimate association with the savages. Soon mother and son went into La Grange together, he clad in his Indian garb, which she replaced with a suit of clothes. He could not take all on at once, however, for out in the street, finding his new shoes not altogether comfortable, he took them off and resumed his moccasins.

Thus it was with regard to his later life. He could not all at once settle from a Comanche warrior into an American citizen, and for some time his life was a struggle between nature and habit. Once the power of habit prevailed, and he went back to the Comanches, but amid their wildest scenes of sport and strife, and in the calm night hours, I think the face of his mother would constantly come to his mind, until the warrior grew homesick and once more, this time of his own
accord, came home, living in Texas ever afterward as a good soldier and an honored citizen.

In the case of Thomas Coleman, who was captured at the time of the Battle of Brushy Creek in 1839, the power of association prevailed, and strange to say he grew up to love a life among the people who had murdered his own mother and brother. His family spared no effort to recover him, and securing the celebrated chief of the Delawares, John Connor, as guide, his cousin looked all through the Indian Nation, till finding him, they almost forced him to come home. He could never, however, adapt himself to civilized life, and soon returned to his wild companions for good.

CHAPTER XIV

In Conclusion

The history of our state since 1847 has, it is true, been a checkered one, and recalling our many trials and dangers and losses from annexation on through the Confederate War, one might feel tempted to indulge in egotism in regard to personal experience, for every true soldier was more or less a hero in those trying times. So many still live, however, who were shoulder to shoulder in those struggles both of state and nation, that I forbear entering into further details.

Suffice to say that my life has been almost entirely that of a Texas soldier. Entering service at thirteen years old, against Mexico, I have tried to be faithful to Texas throughout her troubles. I belonged to the very first company of Rebels who left Bastrop for the Confederate War in 1861, and marched home with the last band of troops after engaging in the last skirmish of the war, which occurred on Texas soil at what is called Palmito Ranch, about fifteen miles below Brownsville, on the east side of the Rio Grande.
¹