Chapter VII: Part 7

“I seen that the Pawnees would soon be after us again,” said the gallant Beckwith, “and I knowed that the Sioux would do the same thing. So I saw that we’d have about a thousand redskins after us, and we wouldn’t be a taste for them. I seen that this wouldn’t do, so I says to Jim Bridger, says I, ‘Jim, what are we goin’ ter do?’ ‘Give it up,’ said Jim, says he, ‘Fight till the reds down us, I reckon, and then turn up our toes like men.’ All this time—bless your soul—them pilgrims what we wuz a-guidin’, wuz in the wagons cryin’. It wuz awful.

“Wall, I jest made up my mind, sir, that I didn’t intend tew give my heart tew no Injun jest then, so I callates about whar th’ two parties of red devils would meet. When we got thar, we drove over a raise in th’ plain and jes’ waited fur ’em. In about two hours I seen th’ dust raisin’ in th’ East in er gret, big cloud. ‘Them’s Pawnees,’ says I, ‘by th’ tarnal prophet.’ Then I looked intew th’ West, and thar th’ dust wuz raisin’, too. ‘Them’s Sioux,’ says I, ‘an’ th’ Devil take ’em. I hev seen pleasanter sights.’ Wall, after waitin’ some time th’ Injuns seen each other, an’ of all th’ cussed yellin’ you ever heard, it wuz thar. I jes’ laid back an’ laughed, while Bridger done some tall chucklin’ too, when them two bands got together. It was lively times, yew bet.

“Th’ Injuns didn’t have many guns in them days, but you kin jest rest assured that they used their arrers fur what wuz in ’em. Thar they went circlin’ aroun’ each other, bendin’ under their hosses’ necks, an’ lettin’ th’ arrers fly. At one time th’ air wuz near so full uv arrers thet it made a cloud, shettin’ out th’ sun. Their ponies got stuck full uv ’em. Their dogs wuz full uv ’em, an’ every Injun in th’ gang had er lot uv ’em stickin’ inter him. I seed a big, fat feller ridin’ off with two uv ’em stickin’ into th’ seat uv his buckskins, an’ it reminded me so uv er big pincushion, thet I near died uv laughin’. Then they begun tew run. They run this way, an’ they run that, and—by Gravy—I believe thet some uv them Injuns be still runnin’ from one another. By Gum, they wuz so busy fightin’ each other, thet they left us plum alone.”

This was certainly a laughable incident, but a bit later occurred another episode which was not quite so amusing for the daring and adventurous Jim Bridger.

About six months after the fight upon the Republican, with five companions, the trapper was travelling near the Platte River. The plainsmen were in search of buffalo and had seen a fair sized herd when a band of Sioux Indians appeared upon one of the rolling bluffs. The trappers sought cover, for they expected an attack, and they were not far from being wrong, for the red men immediately made after them; circled about them upon their ponies, and fired their rifles at long range.

“Dig a trench with your knives,” shouted Bridger. “These fellows are out for our blood and they are going to come pretty near getting us. Move over near that water hole so that they can’t make us die of thirst, and we’ll see who can last the longest.”

Scrambling to their knees, the plainsmen quickly threw up a barricade near the water hole, and, hobbling their ponies behind them, began to take careful aim at the Sioux—one of whom was soon sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds. This enraged the remainder, and wild, blood-curdling yells echoed across the prairie as they drew nearer, hoping to make a rush and annihilate the five white trappers.

“Get ready, boys!” again shouted Bridger. “They’re going to rush us!”

All prepared for the advance by laying out additional ammunition and placing long hunting-knives near at hand. In a few moments the Sioux came on, whipping their ponies to their utmost speed, and yelping madly.

A ringing volley knocked over four of the leaders, but still on they came. Another shot sent a fifth chieftain to the Great Beyond, and, as the trappers reloaded, the Sioux seemed to lose heart. They swerved aside from the breastwork, offering excellent targets to the plainsmen, and, with a dull thud, still another red warrior fell from his galloping pinto. Two of the trappers, meanwhile, were wounded by bullets, while an arrow stuck into the coat sleeve of Jim Bridger, himself.

Now retiring beyond range, the redskins kept up a perpetual fusillade with rifles and with arrows. The trappers held their fire, threw up still higher entrenchments, and waited for the next onslaught, but this did not come. Instead, the Sioux lighted the long, dry prairie grass, and a sheet of flame and smoke curled surely and steadily towards the band of plainsmen, for the wind was blowing directly upon them. What were they to do now?

Necessity is the mother of invention. Quick as a flash, Jim Bridger leaped across the embankment, touched the grass off immediately in front of them, and burnt off quite a small alley-way before the roaring crackling flames came to their place of refuge. The force of the flames thus spent itself before the embankment was reached, and the wily savages renewed their whooping and yelling. Again they charged, but again they were driven off; while night closed over both besieger and besieged, bringing a lull to the unequal battle.

Next day the fight was renewed, and all five of the trappers were wounded. Towards evening it was decided that one of the party should creep through the lines and bring aid from a camp of fifty trappers, who were some miles down the river. The choice fell upon Jim Bridger, and it found him ready to undertake the hazardous expedition. At twelve o’clock he crawled over the side of the little fortification and wormed his way towards the fringe of red warriors who lay about them in a circle.

The scout kept on as quietly as he could and crawled for fully two hundred yards before he saw, or heard, anything of the redskins. Then he got to his feet (as he considered himself through their lines) and prepared to run. But before him was an Indian pony, its master sound asleep by its side. The horse had been feeding in a deep ravine, and—suddenly scenting the trapper—gave a snort which roused its master. The Sioux warrior gazed stupidly at the frontiersman.

But Bridger did not take long to make up his mind what to do. He dashed towards the Indian, intending to strangle him before he could give the alarm. The redskin uttered a loud whoop, and his companions immediately ran in his direction. The scout realized that nothing was now to be gained by silence, and, pulling out his pistol, shot the red man dead. Then, leaping upon his mustang, he urged him upon the gallop. The Sioux were all around him on their pintos, but he had the good fortune to be upon one of their fastest horses, which seemed to outdistance any of the pursuers.

It was a hot chase. The red men fired again and again at the fleeing trapper but they could not hit him. His mustang leaped over the deep crevasses, dodged badger and prairie-dog holes, and brought him safely to the camp of his companions by two o’clock in the afternoon. The Sioux had given up the chase, and, little suspecting that other trappers were camped near by, had returned to the siege of the four, hoping now to make one sudden rush and gain their scalps. Their blood was up, for twenty-five of their number had fallen before the accurate fire of the besieged.

“Come at once!” cried the panting Bridger, as he reached the camp of the plainsmen. “If you do not hurry, my four companions will all be massacred by the red men. To horse! To horse!”

It did not take the trappers long to catch their ponies and jump into their saddles.

“Show us where your friends are!” cried they, “and we’ll fix th’ redskins before another sun.”

Bridger turned and piloted the band of plainsmen back to the place where he had left his beleaguered companions. They went on the run, but, making a wide détour in order to gain the sand-hills in the rear of the besiegers, waited until morning. Then they heard rifle shots in the distance and knew that the battle was on again.

Creeping towards the sound of firing, they soon saw the Sioux preparing for a final charge upon the valorous four, and opened upon them. They had clustered together for a rush, and this weltering volley fairly took the heart out of those of small courage. Many fell dead,—the rest made all haste to get out of range,—while the four trappers in the embankment came running towards their deliverers like wild men. With yells of joy they hugged the burly form of Jim Bridger, to whose nerve and courage they owed their lives.

The scout and plainsman soon moved from the upper waters of the Missouri—after the fur trade had ceased to be prosperous—and founded a trading post in the southwestern part of the State of Wyoming—named Fort Bridger. Here he dealt in skins, furs, and peltries, accumulating a large amount of property, as the Fort was a stopping-place for all the emigrant trains bound for Salt Lake City and for California. He remained true to his Blackfoot wife, and several half-breed children made life merry in the long, low log-hut which the scout had erected as his abode. The famous plainsman lived to a ripe, old age—like most of the early trappers—and was ever ready to tell of his battle with the Sioux, when he rescued his four companions from their clutches. This was the most thrilling of all his many adventures upon the frontier.

“OLD BILL” WILLIAMS:

THE FAMOUS LOG RIDER OF COLORADO

“I HATE every Indian that I ever saw and would just as lief take a shot at one as eat!”

So spoke a raw-boned trapper, with a tangled mat of brown hair hanging across his shoulders, and, as he said this, he gazed vindictively toward some Indian warriors who were riding slowly past the wagon-train with which the plainsman was travelling. His comrades looked at him and laughed, for this was the favorite theme of Bill Williams, familiarly known as “Old Bill,” although this was a term of endearment and not because of his years, for he was as young as any of them.

The Indians rode on, and from their own glances, which they threw at the gaunt and ungainly trapper, it was plainly evident that they fully reciprocated the feeling which the plainsman held for them. “Ugh! He one bad man!” a gaudy warrior was heard to remark.

“Old Bill” Williams was born in Tennessee, his father being one of the Virginian pioneers who crossed the Blue Ridge and settled in the state when it was swarming with Indians,—all eager to have the land for themselves alone—and not willing to allow the whites to get possession of it without a severe struggle. His son grew up in surroundings of savagery and warfare. He took part in many of the Ohio campaigns against the red men in that state, and was invariably used as a scout, for his knowledge of woodcraft was excellent. After the red men were partially subdued, he moved further west to the Rockies, where his scouting habits still clung to him. He would often be absent for many weeks upon his solitary expeditions, and would as frequently return with scalps as with the furs of wild animals.

The Crows and the Blackfeet were continually at war with each other, with the advantage upon the side of the latter, for the Crows were more cowardly than their war-like enemies. They had the advantage, however, of having a white renegade to lead them. His name was Rose: formerly one of the land pirates who lived near and upon the treacherous waters of the Mississippi. This desperate man taught the redskins how to fight like the whites and continually advised them in their councils of war, so that they often defeated the Blackfeet in their sanguinary encounters.

One day “Old Bill” Williams was off on a scout with Bill Gordon, and, becoming separated from him, was endeavoring to reach camp by water, so as to leave no trail for the eye of some lurking Blackfoot warrior. He was therefore floating down stream on a log. As he reached a shallow part of the creek the muddied water and footprints upon the bank showed where a big grizzly had just gone by.

“By Gravy,” said the scout to himself, “here’s the chance to make a hundred dollars from that old fellow’s hide. I’m after him.”

Wading to the shore, he started off through the brush, and followed Bruin with his head down, for the bushes kept slapping him in the eyes. As he was thus proceeding, he suddenly debouched from the brush into a cleared space. Before him was no grizzly, but a band of ten Blackfoot warriors. They stopped in amazement, and so did Williams, who said in loud tones: “Gee-hos-i-phat!”

The Indians, on the other hand, set up a loud yelping, and, seeing them preparing to fire, “Old Bill” raised his trusty flint-lock, pulled the trigger, and knocked over a big, fine-looking savage who had on the war-bonnet of a chieftain. Not stopping to make closer acquaintance, the wiry Bill then dashed into a neighboring canyon. As he glanced over his shoulder he saw that only four of the Blackfeet were coming after him.

The scout raced along for about a quarter of a mile; then, seeing that the redskins were far behind, stopped in order to load his rifle. He had just rammed home a ball when the Blackfeet began to draw near, so he dropped behind the stump of a moss-grown tree and waited for them to come on. They approached quite hurriedly, gazing at the ground for tracks, and eagerly pointing out the traces of the trapper’s footprints. When they came within good range “Old Bill” pressed the trigger and a Blackfoot brave fell to the earth, shot through the heart.

“I reckon that this will stop ’em fer er minute er two,” said the man of the plains as he continued his flight up the canyon. He raced ahead for about a half a mile, then halted again in order to load his gun.

The Indians were soon upon him, but they had learned caution, and spread out on either side of him, in order to get in his rear. “Old Bill” was not to be caught napping, and ran like a deer still further up the divide. He was much swifter of foot than the red men, and soon left them far behind. The scout sat down upon a fallen tree trunk, and said to himself:

“Now, I’ll back track like a grizzly, and will get another shot at these painted hyenas.”

Suiting the action to the words, he put on a furious burst of speed for about a half a mile, then doubled back for about two hundred yards. To the right was some fallen timber, and into this the trapper skipped like a molly cotton-tail. “Ah ha!” said he. “I think this will get ’em!”

In a few moments the red warriors hastened by on the run: one of them about a hundred yards astern of the rest. As he came opposite the hiding-place of the scout, “Old Bill” leaped into view, and knocking him down with a well directed bullet, seized his victim’s gun just as another started to come back to where he was standing. This one was dispatched by the Blackfoot rifle, and “Old Bill” had the satisfaction of seeing the fourth (and last) savage run up the canyon in terror, screaming:

“The Great Spirit is with him! The Great Spirit is with him!”

As he disappeared a broad smile came to the face of the trapper, while he wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow.

“By Crickets!” said he. “A tight squeeze, Bill. A tight squeeze!”

I regret to state that the old fellow _scalped_ the dead redskins, for he was apparently as much of an Indian as were his enemies. He also took the precaution to plunge into a mountain stream which gurgled and rushed down a side of the canyon. He followed the water until he reached the mouth of the canyon, then, as he heard voices, dashed into a crevasse in the rocks. A number of Blackfeet soon went by.

“Where has the old wolf gone?” he heard one of them ask. “He runs like a rabbit.”

“You are right,” said another, “but he has an eye like a hawk, and can hold the shooting-stick without flinching. Go carefully! Go carefully! He may be hidden near by!”

They went on up the canyon, and not long afterwards a wailing and screeching came from their direction, showing that they had discovered their dead.

“This is no place for me,” mused the old scout. “I must get away quickly.”

Darting up a neighboring gully, he had just stowed himself away in a fissure of the rocky wall when he heard the Blackfeet returning. They were carrying their dead companions and were wailing dismally. “Old Bill” knew that there would be small chance for him should he fall into their clutches. The cold shivers ran up and down his spine as he contemplated such a happening.

For two days the trapper remained in the canyon. He was afraid to venture forth, because the Blackfeet were undoubtedly near by, and he knew that, once they again saw him, it would be all up with “Old Bill.” He had a tough, dried piece of buffalo meat with him, which kept up his strength, although he suffered terribly from thirst during the day, for he was afraid to venture to the stream until nightfall. Far off, in the valley, he could hear the death chant of the red men.

Three days passed and “Old Bill” was feeling faint from lack of food. Climbing the wall of the canyon, behind his place of refuge, he saw the Blackfeet far below him in the valley. They were moving camp. Hurrah! Their tepee poles were coming down and they were walking away. They gradually faded from view. Again Hurrah! The old scout was smiling now.

Luck was still with him, for he shot an antelope soon afterwards, cooked the stringy meat and felt stronger. Then he rolled a stout log loose from some fallen timber, pushed it into the river and paddled down stream upon this flimsy boat.

“I reckon I’ll dodge the redskins, now,” he said to himself. “A feller walkin’ leaves too good er trail.”

No savage eye detected him in his journey upon this log, and, about a week later, he arrived, smiling, at a frontier trading post. “Old Bill” was royally welcomed by his brother trappers, who slapped him on the back, drank his health, not once, but twenty times, and gave him a new rifle which they had just captured from some half-breeds.

“Old Bill” took this with good humor, for it was all in the day’s work of a scout upon the frontier. In a week he left upon another excursion into the wilds, and alone, for he was like a “solitary,” or buffalo bull, who roams the prairie away from the rest of the herd. He preferred to be without associates in his work. “Two men,” said he, “leave a broader trail than one, and there are many Indians in the country. Two men make more noise. I go alone.”

“He was a great hunter,” said an old Indian. “He was a great trapper—took many beaver—and a great warrior, for his belt was full of scalps. But he have no friend: no squaw. Always by himself. He like the eagle in the heavens, or the panther in the mountains. He one strange man.”

Yes, “Old Bill” was a strange man, but he lived his life upon the frontier for many years without a mishap, although his body bore the marks of many an encounter. Silent and taciturn, those who were associated with him knew only of his deeds by the fresh scalps at his girdle, the notches upon the stock of his gun, and the scars upon the exposed portion of his body. His traps yielded him a small living, and with this he seemed to be content.

The trapper lived to be an old man. Although in innumerable skirmishes and hand-to-hand encounters with the Blackfeet, Crows, Sioux, and other wild riders of the plains, he came off scot free until he met a band of Blackfeet when trapping near the headwaters of the Missouri River. Here he was surrounded by twenty or thirty braves, but, by skillfully climbing his pony down the shelving sides of a canyon, made his escape. They found his tracks, however, and followed him like a pack of hounds after a fox.

“Old Bill” still was lithe and active, although sixty years, and more, of age. Again and again he hid himself, and, with two or three shots, laid out as many of the advancing redskins. He was fortunate in being able to keep away from the vindictive warriors for four full days, although wounded twice: an arrow point in his thigh and a bullet through the fleshy part of his leg. Finally, he reached a series of canyons near the Yellowstone, where numerous streams made it possible for him to leave little trace of his trail, and great boulders of rock hid his retreating form. The red men here gave up the chase, for their quarry defied both fatigue and wounds.

“The Great Spirit is still with the Lone Wolf,” said they. “We will let him go, for here he can kill many of us before we can reach him.”

It was November. A bleak wind blew gusts of snow across the sandy plain as the red warriors retreated. “Old Bill” continued on his way into the advancing storm. The white flakes now covered the earth. A bitter wind assailed him, and great piles of drifting snow whirled and eddied about his gaunt and emaciated form. Dismounting under the side of a projecting cliff, he made a fire by means of rubbing two dried sticks together, ate some _biltong_, which he fortunately had stowed away in a saddle-bag, and lay down to rest. His poor, shivering pony cropped the dry bunches of grass in silent misery.

Two weeks later a party of trappers were crossing the stream near the place where the old fellow had lain down, and saw a pony nibbling the bark from a cottonwood tree. He was gaunt, famished, and his ribs were fairly sticking through his flesh. They rode up to him and were much distressed to see the form of a man lying beneath the white mantle of newly fallen snow. They brushed this away and found “Old Bill;” his grizzled head bent forward upon his breast, and his clothing stained with the wounds which had sapped his very life-blood. He had gone to the Great Beyond.

With tears in their eyes the trappers hollowed out a grave for the lone refugee. Here they buried him, and finding his faithful steed unwilling to leave the place where he had carried his master, shot the emaciated animal. They placed both in the same grave, and over their forms erected a huge pile of stones, not only to mark the last resting-place of “Old Bill,” but also to keep the wolves and coyotes from digging up the remains.

Thus, in a wild canyon perished the aged solitary, and in the peace and quiet of that wilderness in which he loved to wander, hovers the spirit of the lonely man of the plains. His last resting-place well suited the career of “Old Bill:” trapper, scout, and fearless adventurer among the savage men, wild beasts, and inhospitable wastes of the then unpeopled West.

“BIG FOOT” WALLACE:

NOTED RANGER ON THE TEXAN FRONTIER

ABOUT the year 1839, a Waco Indian chieftain lived in the State of Texas, whose feet were of such giant proportions that he was called “Big Foot.” He was a bold and daring fellow. Often, when darkness hid his movement, he would sneak into the frontier town of Austin, would kill whom he could, and would carry off horses and other property. In vain the settlers tried to dispatch him, for he was a veritable scourge to the settlements.

The fellow was a physical giant, being six feet seven inches in height, of muscular build, and weighing about three hundred pounds. His tracks measured fourteen inches, from heel to toe, so you can readily see that the name that was applied to him was not ill chosen. Often these footprints would be seen in the sandy soil, after he had committed one of his thieving expeditions, and the settlers used to cry out:

“Good-by to our horses! Old ‘Big Foot’ is around again. Good-by!”

One evening the big Indian came into Austin, and, after prowling around for a time, committed some theft upon the property of a settler named Gravis. He then went to the cabin occupied by a huge, lanky ranger called Wallace. Next morning Gravis trailed the Indian to the doorstep of the pioneer, and, without trying to trace it any further, aroused the owner of the cabin.

“See here, Wallace,” said he, “you’ve been stealing from my place and I intend to get even with you. No one has as big feet as you have around here, and I have found your tracks leading from my hut to your very door.”

The accused man grew angry and prepared to whip the other.

“Look here,” said Gravis, at this juncture, “if you prove to me that these are not your footprints you can go clear and I will apologize.”

He stepped aside, as he spoke, and Wallace immediately went to the Indian’s track. He placed his foot in it, exclaiming:

“By Gravy, Gravis, this is old ‘Big Foot,’ the Injin’s, track. Can’t you see that it’s mor’n two inches longer than my own!”

The first speaker bent over the marks with an exclamation of astonishment.

“You’re right,” said he. “Wallace, old man, I beg your pardon.” And, shaking him warmly by the hand, he walked away.

While this was going on, a man named Fox came to the doorway of Wallace’s hut. He had been spending the night there, for he was a business partner of the frontiersman. As his friend turned towards the cabin, he cried out gleefully:

“Well, well, old scout. When ‘Big Foot’—the Indian—is not around we will all call _you_ ‘Big Foot.’ Ha! Ha! That’s a good one, I swan. ‘Big Foot’ you’ll be from henceforth.”

And that is the way that William Alexander Anderson Wallace came to be called “Big Foot” Wallace.

Born in Lexington, Virginia, in 1817, this intrepid frontiersman came of good, old Scottish stock, and stock that was of fighting spirit, for two of his uncles were killed in the battle of Guilford Court House. The Wallaces were all of powerful build, and the hero of our sketch was six feet two inches in height (in his moccasins) and weighed two hundred and forty pounds. He had long arms, large hands, and thick, curly, black hair. One of his uncles was nearly seven feet tall and his brother was six feet five inches in height.

As a young fellow, “Big Foot” Wallace had little of the excitement which was to come to him in later years. When about twenty years of age war commenced between the American colonists and Mexicans for the possession of Texas. Many young men went from Virginia to assist the Texans in driving out the soldiers under Santa Anna, among them Samuel Wallace, the older brother of William with the big feet. Samuel was killed in the massacre of Colonel Fannin’s men at Goliad, which has been described in “Famous Scouts,” and with him were also dispatched three cousins of our hero. When the news of this affair reached Lexington, Virginia, great was the grief among the relatives of these brave and valiant frontiersmen, and William was much upset by it.

“I am going to Texas,” he cried out. “And I intend to spend my life in killing Mexicans. Those men who could massacre my brother after he had surrendered and had been disarmed, can expect no quarter from me. I intend to have revenge!”

He had splendid opportunities in later years to make good this threat.

Taking ship from New Orleans to Galveston, William soon set foot on Texan soil. The war was over. Santa Anna had been defeated and captured the year before, at the famous battle of San Jacinto, and Texas was now an independent republic. So the young ranger drifted to Colorado, where he was soon surrounded by a large party of Indians and was captured. They carried him to their camp, but he only remained there a week, before he slipped away, eluded his pursuers, and got back to the settlement of San Antonio. His restless spirit could not be confined to the streets of a city and he soon went far to the southwest, where he camped and hunted along the Medina River. Finally he built a cabin there and lived the life of a lone huntsman and trapper in a region which was infested by Indians, horse-thieves, and fugitives from justice.

“Big Foot” Wallace had not been long in the country before he realized that something had to be done in order to keep law and order in this unsettled land. Besides the numerous raids of hostile bands of Indians—who roamed at will from New Mexico to the coast region of Texas—desperadoes and gamblers swarmed around all the border towns, and more particularly around San Antonio. No one was safe who opposed these wild fellows, and it was almost impossible to keep horses. The thieves would even dig through the adobe walls of the stables in order to steal them. A strong hand was needed to awe these desperate men and keep the Indians in check. There was one man in western Texas at this time who was quite equal to the emergency. His name was “Captain” Jack Hays.

The Governor of Texas sent for him.

“I hereby commission you to raise a company of Rangers,” said he to the gallant Captain Jack. “You will make San Antonio your headquarters and you must hold both Indians and horse-thieves in check. You can follow the redskins anywhere that you wish, and, if necessary, you can shoot any horse-thief upon the spot.”

“Big Foot” Wallace soon heard of the Rangers, and applied for admission at once. He was accepted, for he was strong, fearless, a good rider, and an excellent shot. Captain Hays was very particular as to the kind of men that he enlisted, and that is why he had the best set of Indian fighters that Texas ever produced. Each man had to have a good horse, valued at one hundred dollars, and also a rifle of the best make. The desperadoes and horse-thieves soon began to disappear from the neighborhood of San Antonio.

In the numerous affrays which now took place “Big Foot” Wallace had a prominent part. Several battles were fought with the Indians. In 1842 the Mexicans made a sudden descent from Mexico and captured San Antonio. At the quarters used by the Texan Rangers they found a pair of pantaloons belonging to “Big Foot” Wallace, and this they appropriated as their own.

“By the eternal prophet,” shouted the scout, when he heard of the theft. “I will sure get even with the Greasers for this, and I will kill a Señor and get another pair of breeches, or bust.”

Not long afterwards Jack Hays and his men rode near the town and gave the Mexicans such “a dare” that their whole force of cavalry and infantry came out to chase them. There were four hundred Mexicans and but a small squad of Rangers, yet the Texans kept up a stiff firing and retreated slowly across the plains. During the battle, “Big Foot” Wallace was continually upon the lookout to kill a big Mexican and get another pair of trousers to replace his own. He had not long to wait.

The Mexicans soon charged, and in the mix-up that ensued one daring fellow approached Wallace, and pointing his carbine at him, cried out: “Take that, you accursed cow-thief!” Whereupon he discharged his piece in his face. The large ounce ball from the clumsy musket just grazed the nose of the scout and nearly blinded him with smoke. “Big Foot” fired his own piece, but missed. As this occurred, another Ranger cried out: “My, my, what awful bad shooting,” and—aiming his rifle—quickly sent a ball through the Mexican’s body. The man from the south of the Rio Grande fell against a mesquite tree and soon died.

“Big Foot” breathed more easily, and during the next charge heard one of his companions call out:

“’Big Foot,’ yonder is a Mexican who has on a pair of pants large enough to fit you. Go get ’em, boy! Go get ’em!”

The Mexican in question was assisting some of the wounded back to the rear. Wallace kept his eye on him and said:

“If I can get him, I will. But th’ critter moves about so fast that I can’t draw a bead on him.”

As he spoke, he attracted the attention of General Caldwell, who commanded some infantrymen who had come to the assistance of the Rangers. The dress of the giant Texan, his massive frame, and his actions, were sufficient to mark him as a man born to leadership.

“What command do you hold, sir?” inquired Caldwell, as he rode up to the fighting Ranger.

“None,” answered “Big Foot,” saluting. “I am one of Jack Hays’ Rangers and I want that fellow’s breeches over there, as the Greasers have stolen mine from me.” He pointed, as he spoke, to his intended victim.

The general laughed and rode on, determined to advance “Big Foot” to a Lieutenancy, if the opportunity presented itself. The Ranger, meanwhile, crept nearer to the fellow with the big pantaloons, and before many moments laid him low by a well directed shot. Making a dash for the fallen man, he seized him by the shoulders, dragged him into the American lines, and soon was wearing a new pair of yellow trousers.

“Hurrah for ‘Big Foot,’” shouted his companions. “He has, at last, made good his threat of vengeance. Hurrah for ‘Big Foot!’”

The Mexicans were defeated, driven from San Antonio, and were followed by Captain Jack Hays and his Rangers as far as the Hondo River, where the rear guard was attacked by a detachment under “Big Foot,” and some cannon were captured. The mule which the leader was riding was slightly wounded, but this was the only mishap to the Americans. The Mexicans withdrew in safety to their own territory.

The blood of the Texans was now up. “Revenge for the taking of San Antonio!” was heard on every side. “Vengeance upon the Mexicans! Revenge!”

Thus, in retaliation for the invasion of Texas under Wall, an expedition started for Mexico in 1843, commanded by General Somervell. Captain Jack Hays was there with his Rangers, but the expedition went to pieces on the Rio Grande and most of the men came back, among them Captain Jack and many of his followers. Five captains, however, determined to go on, in the invasion of Mexico,—that is, if they could get men enough. Three hundred Texans immediately decided to fight: among this number, “Big Foot” Wallace and several other Rangers. Electing a certain Captain Fisher to the chief command, they crossed the Rio Grande and encamped opposite the town of Mier. Its streets were soon to run red with blood.

The chief man of a Mexican town is called an alcade, and, on the following morning, the Americans marched into the town and told the alcade that he must furnish them with provisions and with clothing.

“Yes, yes, Señors,” said the Mexican official, bowing. “To-morrow the articles will be delivered to you, two miles below your camp.”

But the Texans did not believe in taking any chances. They brought the alcade along with them when they went back to their camp, so as to be sure that the provisions would really be delivered. They waited two full days and no goods were to be seen. They grew anxious and soon their spies made them more so, for these reported that General Ampudia had arrived in Mier with a large force of Mexican troops.

“We will proceed to the town and give them battle!” cried out the Texan commander.

By four o’clock in the afternoon the Americans had all crossed and were on their way to the little Mexican post. The spies were in front and first met the Mexicans as they sallied out from Mier. But the Rangers knew how to shoot and Ampudia retreated before the Texan bullets. At dark the Mexicans again entered their stronghold and barricaded themselves.

The Texans had their fighting blood up, and, in spite of the darkness, advanced to Alcantra Creek, east of the little town, where they halted for some time. The stream ran rapidly, so that it was difficult to find a crossing, but at last they all got over. As they scrambled up the bank, they were met by a hot fire, and the Mexican cavalry advanced against them. Five of the Rangers were cut off and captured. Others made narrow escapes, for the Mexicans now came in close enough for hand to hand fighting, and surrounded many of the more daring. Several of the invaders were compelled to abandon their horses and make a run for it across fences and ditches. A Ranger called Sam Walker was caught by a powerful Mexican and was held down, while others tied him. One man named McMullins was seized by the legs as he was getting over a fence, but his boots pulled off and he made his escape. This was fortunate.

“Big Foot” Wallace was not among those first over the creek, and advanced with the main body, which now came on, driving the Mexicans into the town. The troops soon entered Mier and passed down a street leading to the public square, where the Mexicans had planted cannon. While advancing rapidly, they were repeatedly fired upon, and a Ranger named Jones was killed. As he fell, he lurched against “Big Foot” Wallace, who had felt the wind from the bullet that laid him low. The Texans pressed on and soon arrived at a point near the cannon, where they received a charge of grape-shot, which made them seek shelter behind some buildings. It was now dark. It was also Christmas evening, but there were no peaceful revels in Mier that winter’s day.

The Texans had but one way to advance: by opening a passageway through the buildings so that they could get in the rear of the deadly cannon. They worked all night in digging a hole through the adobe walls. When daylight came, they were within fifty yards of the death-dealing artillery.

“Big Foot” Wallace was among those in the very forefront of battle. While engaged in tunnelling through the building he discovered a Mexican baby which had been abandoned during the hasty retreat of the occupants of the house upon the approach of the Texans. It set up a terrific squalling when the Americans approached it, so “Big Foot” carefully took it up, and, advancing to a wall enclosing a yard, climbed up and dropped it over. At the same time, he shouted out in Spanish:

“Come and get the muchacho. Quick!”

He soon heard a woman’s voice and supposed that the poor infant was being taken care of.

Daylight dawned upon a scene of great activity. Port-holes had been opened in the various rooms into which the men had clambered, and the deadly crack of the rifles was soon heard, as the Texans began to fire at the artillerymen. The cannon were quickly silenced, for it was death for a Mexican to venture near them. Three attempts were made by the “Greasers” to storm and carry the Texan position, but each failed with fearful loss. The Mexicans, in fact, came on so thickly packed together that it was impossible to miss them. The bravest of all were the town guards, who wore black hats with white bands around them. They were nearly all killed.

The Texans were fighting gamely and the Mexicans were soon forced to abandon all of their artillery. Ropes were thrown around these instruments of war, from the corners of buildings, and the men from the South succeeded in dragging some of them away. “Big Foot” Wallace was doing a great deal of shooting. He says that he loaded and fired his rifle fifteen times, always waited for a good chance, and had a bead upon a Mexican every time that he pulled the trigger.

During the battle bugles sounded constantly, and it was reported that the Mexicans were being largely reinforced. The Texans, however, were undismayed at this report, and continued to load and fire their rifles with such deadly effect that great confusion prevailed among their foes, who continually uttered cries of rage and pain, amidst a constant blast of bugles. They occupied the house tops, where they kept their bodies well hid, and fired from the gutters and from behind the chimneys. The American leader, himself, was severely wounded, while many of the gallant Texans lay bleeding in the narrow streets of the quaint, little Mexican town.

A small guard had been left by the Rangers upon the other side of the creek. Just after daylight, upon the twenty-sixth of December, these attacked about sixty of the Mexican cavalry and routed them, but, seeing a large reinforcement approaching, they desperately endeavored to join their comrades in the little town. Out of the nine men who made this desperate charge, two succeeded; four were killed; and three were captured.

The fortune of war was apparently going badly with the Mexicans, but a sudden turn of events placed victory in their very hands. Captain Cameron had fortified himself and his men in the rear of a building occupied by Fisher and his support, where he had been exposed to a fearful fire. Upon the morning after Christmas day he entered the room occupied by his superior officer.

“Send me reinforcements,” he said, “for the bugles are blowing the charge and I am afraid that I will be annihilated.”

“I have no reinforcements,” Fisher replied. “You will have to fight on as you are.”

As he ceased speaking a white flag was seen approaching from the Mexican lines. With it was a Doctor Sinnickson—a Texan who had been recently captured by the Mexican troops. He had been ordered to tell the Rangers that there were one thousand seven hundred Mexican troops in the city, and that three hundred more were approaching from Monterey.

“Ampudia says that it will be useless for you to resist,” said the Doctor. “If you surrender, you will be treated like prisoners of war. If you resist, no quarter will be given!”

The Texan leader looked gloomily before him. He was on foreign soil. He was hemmed in on every side by his enemies. His men were nearly all worn out. The streets of Mier had run red with Mexican blood; and there was no chance to win. He was in favor of an honorable surrender. But some thought that they could make a sally from their barricaded position, and, by keeping together, could fight their way out of town and to the borders of the Rio Grande. These gathered around Cameron and begged him to take command; to make a rush; and to fight a way out. Great confusion prevailed. Some began to leave their positions and give their guns up to their enemies. Every few moments barricades would be torn away and men would march out and surrender.

Cameron held on to his position until many had given themselves up. Then he saw that all hope was gone, and therefore turned to his men.

“Boys,” said he, “it is useless for us to continue the fight any longer. They are all gone except ourselves.”

His followers stood for a few moments watching the crowds of Mexicans, who were making a great demonstration. Their cavalry was charging up and down the streets, while many were carrying away the guns of the Texans who were collected upon the plaza. The citizens of the town were cheering for victory.

“I’ll never give up,” said “Big Foot” Wallace. “My relatives were massacred after they had surrendered at Goliad, and that is what the Mexicans will do to us.”

But Cameron wished to save the lives of his men and so took the lead. As he marched towards the Mexican line, his soldiers followed. When they emerged from their position into the street they were met by a strong detachment of Mexicans. The painful work of surrendering their arms now commenced. “Big Foot” Wallace was the last man to give up his gun, his knife, and his pistol.

The bloody battle of Mier was over. The Mexican loss had been heavy. With two thousand in the field, five hundred had been killed. The Texans had two hundred and sixty in the town, sixteen of whom were killed and thirty of whom were wounded. The Mexicans lost forty artillerymen. The bodies of the slain Texans were dragged through the streets by the cavalry, and were followed by crowds of yelling townsfolk. Four rows of dead Mexicans were laid out upon the plaza, where the priests said mass among them. It had been a fierce little battle.

Now the troubles of the Texan Rangers really commenced. The wounded were left at the blood-bespattered Mier in charge of the good Doctor Sinnickson, while the able-bodied Americans were marched towards Mexico City, in charge of General Ampudia. Everywhere they were met by jubilant Mexicans, who made grand demonstrations as they passed through the towns, blowing bugles, hallooing, and charging around upon their horses. The Texans were so starved that they became thin and haggard, while their shoes were worn completely through. The Mexican women pitied the half-fed Americans, some of whom were mere boys. At Monterrey they came in with provisions and fed them. “Big Foot” Wallace—still wearing the trousers which he had captured—was thin but game. “Just give me a chance to escape,” he muttered to a companion.” Then,—watch me go!”

Finally the Texans were placed in prison at the Hacienda Salado. Their numbers were increased by a few ranchers who had been captured in other raids. All were anxious to make the attempt to escape, and a plan was set on foot to rush the guards at sunrise on the eleventh day of February, 1843. At Monterrey a similar plot had been hatched, but one of the Texan officers had disclosed it to the Mexicans, so the attempt had not been made.

All was soon ready for the struggle for freedom. Captain Cameron gave the signal by throwing up his hat, and two scouts named Lyons and Brennan led the charge upon the guards. The Mexicans were taken completely by surprise, were disarmed at the door of the prison, and saw the Texans dash into the outer court of the building where about one hundred and fifty infantrymen were guarding the arms and boxes of cartridges. The Texans numbered two hundred.

The frontiersmen rushed immediately upon the regular soldiers, who levelled their muskets at them and fired in their very faces. The Texans were not armed, but they pressed onward, received the fire, and closed in upon the yellow-skinned custodians of the jail. It was too bold a dash for the Mexicans. They surrendered or fled after the first fire, but the Texans had other soldiers to face.

A second company of infantry was stationed at the gate and a force of cavalry was outside. The gallant Texans did not hesitate for an instant. The desperate fellows rushed upon them, and a terrible fight ensued. Most of them had secured guns by now, and, when the second hand-to-hand fight took place, they were better prepared to force their way. “Big Foot” Wallace did not have a gun, so he rushed at a Mexican who had discharged his piece, and tried to disarm him. The fellow had a bayonet upon the end of his musket. He made a vicious thrust at the gaunt and lanky man from Texas.

“Big Foot” seized the bayonet with his bare hands, and a hard struggle took place for the possession of it. As they bent to and fro, an unarmed prisoner came up behind, and, seizing the gun in the centre, wrested it from the Mexican. The soldier fell upon his knees, held up his hands, and called out loudly: “Señors, have mercy! Have mercy!”

“You can go,” shouted “Big Foot” Wallace.

The fight was now raging fiercely and the scout went into the thick of it, brandishing the musket which he had just captured, and doing awful execution with the bayonet. The Texans were getting nearer and nearer to the gate which opened upon the streets of the town. The Mexicans were uttering screams and yells of terror and surprise. The Rangers were among them with clubbed guns and were delivering blows to the right and left. The cavalry became terror-stricken and fled. The infantrymen at the gate began to throw down their arms and try to surrender.

One Mexican lieutenant showed extraordinary bravery. His name was Barragan,—a son of the commander of the Mexican force. Backing against a wall, he brandished his sword aloft, and refused to surrender except to an officer. Six Texans surrounded him and thrust bayonets at his breast, but he kept his arm in motion and successfully parried every thrust. His sabre was moved about with such rapidity that it could hardly be seen.

At this time “Big Foot” Wallace came up. “Here,” cried a Texan, “you shoot this fellow, ‘Big Foot.’ He deserves death.”

But the lanky Texan shook his head. “No,” said he. “This man deserves better treatment, for he is a brave soldier. I refuse to shoot him.”

“Let me see your Captain,” cried the Mexican. “To him I will surrender my sword.”

Captain Cameron came up at once and the blade was turned over to him. With a proud look the Mexican stepped back and folded his arms.

“You are a brave man,” said Cameron. “You must be our prisoner, but you will not be injured.”

The Texans were now masters of the situation. They dictated terms to their enemies, one of which was that the wounded should be well taken care of. Meanwhile they prepared for instant flight, for they knew that a large force would soon be on their trail. Some of the Mexicans had tied their horses near by, and these were at once seized.

By ten o’clock in the morning the Texans were all mounted and set out for the Rio Grande. It was touch and go with them. The chances for their getting away were very slight, for they did not know the country.

“Big Foot” Wallace had secured a fine dun-colored mule which had belonged to a Mexican officer. The other Texans had good mounts, and by midnight were fifty miles from the scene of their battle. A short halt was made and the horses were fed. The men slept two hours, and, early in the morning, left the main road so as to go around the city of Saltillo. They soon abandoned the road for the mountains. This was a fatal mistake, for it was a barren waste with no water and no food.

For six days the gallant Texans pressed onward. They were soon perishing with thirst and starvation. So hungry were they that horses were killed and eaten. The Texans drank the blood of their mounts, and, leaving the remains of their slaughtered beasts for the coyotes and buzzards, they plunged into the arid, brown mountains in a vain endeavor to reach the Rio Grande. Many were on foot. Some became delirious and wandered away to die in lonely ravines. The party became badly scattered. “Big Foot” Wallace dried some mule meat in the sun and carried it along in a haversack. The frontiersmen toiled onward in the direction of the Rio Grande, but the Mexican cavalry was hot upon their trail.

Finally the yellow-skinned soldiers of the country began to come up with the half-dead Texans and to capture them. The majority of the invaders formed a hollow square and refused to surrender unless they could do so as prisoners of war. They were hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed and half alive, yet they cried out that they would fight unless granted an honorable surrender. The Mexicans were well mounted and well fed. They had the Rangers at their mercy, yet they granted them what they asked for. Of one hundred and ninety-three Texans who had made their escape, five died of thirst and starvation, four got through to Texas, and three were never heard of again.