Chapter VIII: Part 8

The Texans were tied together with ropes and were marched in a single line to Saltillo. When they were brought into the city an order was received from Santa Anna to have them shot. The Mexican officer in charge of the prisoners refused to comply, and said that he would resign his commission before he would do so. The British consul also interfered, so the poor Texans were allowed to go on to Salado, where they had had their fierce battle for freedom. They were placed in irons. As they reached the town an order came from Santa Anna to have every tenth man shot.

When the prisoners arrived at the jail from which they had so gloriously escaped, some Mexicans were seen digging a ditch. “Big Foot” Wallace nudged a companion. “That ditch is for us!” said he. He was quite right.

The Mexican officers now decided to let the prisoners draw lots in order to see who should, and who should not be, shot. A large jar was filled with beans: as many beans as Texans. White and black beans were there. The white ones meant life; the black,—death. There were nine white beans to one black.

The Texans were now marched out from their jail and were formed in a long line. An officer soon approached with the jar in his hand, in which were one hundred and fifty-nine white beans and seventeen black ones. The poor Texans were to pass through a fearful ordeal, but they were all gamblers with life, so they took it philosophically. Soldiers will rush to almost certain death in the excitement of battle, but to stand and decide one’s fate by the drawing of a bean is worse than charging upon a spitting cannon.

The Mexican officers were very anxious to kill Captain Cameron, the gallant leader of the gaunt and half-starved Texans. They were therefore in great hopes that he would draw a black bean, and, for this reason, placed black beans on top, within the jar. He was also requested to draw first.

But one of the captives—a fellow named “Bill” Wilson—saw the trick, and, as Cameron placed his hand in the jar, the Ranger called out: “Dip deep, Captain! Dip deep!”

Cameron followed his advice, ran his fingers to the bottom, and pulled out a white bean. A look of satisfaction passed over the faces of the Texans, for they all loved the brave and unselfish Captain. The Mexicans scowled as the drawing went rapidly on.

All “dipped deep” and it was thus some time before a black bean was pulled forth. The Texans knew that some of them would be compelled to draw the black beans, but they grinned with delight as friend after friend extracted a white bean from the fateful jar. Most of the scouts showed the utmost coolness. One noted gambler from Austin, Texas, stepped up to the jar with a smile, saying: “Boys, this is the largest stake that I ever played for!” When he drew out his hand a black bean was between thumb and forefinger. Without changing the smile on his face, he muttered: “Just my luck! Good-by to dear, old Texas!”

One young fellow, almost a boy, drew a black bean, and giving one appealing look at his comrades, cried out:

“Boys, avenge my death on these hounds!”

As the drawing progressed, some of the petty Mexican officers did all in their power to annoy the prisoners. When one would draw a black bean they would express great sorrow, and would say: “Cheer up! Better luck next time!” although they knew that this was the last chance which the poor fellow would ever have.

One witty Texan cried out, when his time came to draw:

“Boys, I had rather draw for a Spanish horse and lose him!” He drew a white bean.

The time approached for “Big Foot” Wallace to have his turn, for the men drew in alphabetical order, and W was well down upon the list. The boys were “dipping deep” and nearly all of the white beans had been dipped out. As “Big Foot” reached into the jar there were about an equal number of black beans and white. His hand was so large that he had difficulty in squeezing it down to the beans.

The wily Ranger was under the impression that the black beans were a little larger than the white ones, so he scooped up two against the side of the vessel, and, getting them between his fingers, felt them with great care. The Mexicans were watching him very closely. “Hurry up!” cried one. “If you pull out two beans and one of them is a black one, you will have to take the black.”

“Big Foot” paid no attention to this remark. Life was now at stake. He deliberately felt the beans for some time and one seemed to be larger than the other. He let it go, drew out his hand, and breathed easier. He had drawn out a white bean. The next two men drew black.

The black beans had now all been extracted, and the last three Texans did not draw. An officer turned up the jar and three white beans fell to the ground. The condemned men were then placed in a row and the firing squad was detailed and counted off.

The irons were now taken from the unfortunate Texans and they were led away to execution, bidding their more fortunate companions good-by, as they moved off. Tears were running down the cheeks of the emaciated Texans as they bade their comrades a last adieu. A man named Whaling asked not to be blindfolded, saying that he wished to look the man in the face that shot him, and show them how a Texan could die. His request was refused.

The bold and intrepid Texan Rangers were now ready for execution. All were blindfolded, a sharp order rang out, and the crash of muskets woke the echoes of the high adobe walls of the quaint, rambling prison. Without a sound the condemned Texans fell to the ground, all of them dead save one. This man—a fellow named Shepherd—was wounded in the shoulder, although a Mexican musket was within a few feet of him when it had been fired. He feigned death, so that he was able to crawl off and escape to the mountains after the Mexicans had gone away. But the men of the south discovered that one of their victims had disappeared when they came to remove the bodies to the ditch which had been prepared for them. Scouts were sent out in every direction to hunt for the missing corpse. In ten days the Ranger was retaken and was shot.

The survivors—in irons—were started on foot for the City of Mexico. They were half starved. They were derided, hooted at, and beaten by the populace. “Big Foot” Wallace suffered terribly, for the shackles were too small and cut deep into the flesh. His arms became badly swollen.

When the poor prisoners arrived at San Louis Potosi, the Governor’s wife came to look at the half-fed men and particularly noted the condition of Wallace. Her sympathies were at once aroused and she ordered the chains to be taken off. The officer who commanded the Mexican troops refused to do so, saying that only the Governor had authority to give such an order.

“I am the Governor’s wife,” replied the woman. “I command you—in his name—to take off these terrible bands.”

To this the soldier consented. Sending for a blacksmith, he had the shackles removed. The Governor’s wife bathed the swollen arms of “Big Foot” Wallace with her own hands.

“You should be President of Mexico,” said the half-dead Ranger.

The prisoners were marched onward and soon arrived at an Indian village about eighteen miles from the City of Mexico. Here an order came from Santa Anna to shoot Captain Ewing Cameron. He had drawn a white bean, but the Mexican leader did not respect his former decision. The order was kept a secret from the balance of the prisoners out of fear that they would make a demonstration. That night Cameron was put in a room alone, with a separate guard. The rest of the prisoners suspected some treachery and were fearful of the fate of their brave leader.

Next morning, when they were all marched out, each Texan filled his shirt full of rocks, determined to die for their captain if need be.

“Why are you getting those rocks?” asked the guards.

“It is for ballast,” replied “Big Foot” Wallace. “We want to walk better.”

The Mexican soldiers made no attempt to take the stones away. They were probably afraid to do so, as they saw a desperate look upon the faces of the Rangers. As they marched on, the prisoners frequently inquired about Cameron and wanted to know if he were going to be shot.

“No! No!” replied the Mexicans. “Go on! Your Captain will soon be with you!”

Somewhat reassured, the Rangers went forward, but, when they were about a mile from the town, they heard a platoon of soldiers fire their muskets in their rear. Some one cried out: “Brave Cameron has been massacred, boys! A finer man never breathed!”

It was only too true. The patriotic Texan had met his death unflinchingly,—a victim of the treachery of the wily Santa Anna.

Texas was then an independent Republic, for it had not yet been admitted into the Union. The United States had nothing to do with protecting the citizens of Texas, and the young Republic did not have forces enough to invade Mexico with an army, so as to rescue these unfortunate men. The British consul, however, had a good deal to say about the killing of Cameron, and had a personal interview with Santa Anna regarding it. He severely condemned this cruel procedure.

The Rangers were now closely confined in a miserable dungeon. Many went insane and died. Twenty-four succeeded in digging their way out, underneath the wall. Four scaled over the high enclosure and made their way back to Texas in safety. “Big Foot” Wallace, himself, had a fit of temporary insanity, but he recovered and managed to live through the months of terrible imprisonment. The Texans were so badly fed that they caught the rats which ran across the dungeon floor and ate them. Meanwhile Santa Anna’s wife was continually pleading with her husband to liberate the miserable men. The stern dictator was greatly attached to her, and would grant almost anything that she asked.

Friends of the Texans were using their best endeavors to have the prisoners released. Through the influence of his father and Governor McDowell of Virginia, “Big Foot” Wallace was finally set free. Upon the fifth day of August, 1844, he and four others were allowed to go, after an imprisonment of twenty-two months. Upon the same day the good wife of Santa Anna died,—regretted and beloved by every Texan who had worn the chains of Mexico. Soon afterwards an order came to set free the remainder of the Texans, for Santa Anna had promised his wife—on her death-bed—that he would release them. To his honor be it said that he kept his promise.

The intrepid “Big Foot” was, of course, delighted with his freedom. Taking ship at Vera Cruz, he soon reached New Orleans, and from there found his way back to his old cabin upon the Medina River. Many settlers had taken up ranches near by, so he was no longer alone. Still the Indians were very thick, and there were frequent brushes with the wild riders of the plains.

One day—near Fort Inge—the pioneer discovered the track of the famous Big Foot Indian, where he and six followers had crossed the road. The old fellow’s footprint was fourteen inches in length, and, as he had seen it several times before, the plainsman knew that there was trouble in the wind. When he reached the fort, he found a friend of his named Westfall.

“That Big Foot redskin is around,” said he. “This means horse stealing. If the old cuss does get your stock, just let me know and I will join you in a little Injun round-up.”

“All right,” Westfall replied. “If I need you, I will let you know.”

As Wallace expected, in three or four days a Ranger came after him with the information that all of Westfall’s horses had been stolen and that he was needed—very badly needed—to assist in their recapture. The Indians had ridden up the Nueces Canyon to its source, and then had crossed over to the headwaters of the South Llano, where they had gone into camp in a dense cedar grove. They thought that they had captured all of the white men’s horses, and so would not be followed. As they had shot a small bear, they proceeded to cook it over a glowing fire.

But the redskins did not remember that the white settlers had some very good mules, which they had not captured. On these the Texans followed the Indian trail, and soon located the redskin encampment by the smoke from the fire. Westfall rested, but did not cook anything. He was waiting for morning, before making the attack.

As day dawned, the plainsman crept towards the Indian camp; accompanied by a youth named Preston Polly. The other men—four in number—were told to come on when they heard his gun. At first the two whites descended into the bed of a gorge to a point opposite the camp of the famous Big Foot Indian. When nearing the smoke from the fire, a trail was discovered, which led down the hill to a pool of water fed by two deep springs. Below the pool was some rank, coarse grass. Westfall and the boy halted in this.

Suddenly, as he peered beneath some bushes, Westfall saw an Indian coming towards the pool of water. He was mounted upon a pie-bald pony, and was a tall, well-formed brave. The plainsman lay still, scarcely daring to breathe. Silently he cocked his rifle and kept his eyes upon the savage.

In a few moments the Indian came into full view. The heart of the plainsman beat quickly, for before him was the terrible Big Foot: his face all daubed up with vermilion paint, and eagle feathers in his scalp-lock. Motioning to the boy to remain absolutely quiet, Westfall slowly raised his rifle. At this moment the horse discovered the ambushed marksman and snorted. Big Foot turned quickly in order to see what was the matter and was for a moment stationary. Bang! The burly chieftain—the scourge and terror of the border—pitched forward upon his face. He had been shot clean through the heart.

True to their orders to approach when they heard the discharge of a rifle, the other men came up quickly, on the run. They charged up the hill, past the body of the dead chief, and into the camp of the red men. The Indians had gone, but the stolen horses were all in camp, except those ridden away by the redskins. The pioneers ate a good portion of the bear meat, which was fat, juicy, and well roasted.

When they examined the big chief, they found that he was indeed the giant of a man, for he was seven feet tall and weighed about three hundred pounds. His hand clutched the bridle-reins so firmly that his pony was unable to pull away from him. His hair was fully a yard in length and he had strong arms and legs. Upon his right knee was the mark of a bullet where he had been wounded some years before. The white men took his moccasins in order to prove that it was the real Big Foot; rounded up their horses; and were soon travelling back to their ranches. The great chief was buried without ceremony.

“Big Foot” Wallace was shortly afterwards commissioned by the Governor of Texas to raise a company of Rangers for frontier defense. He was made Captain and appointed his friend Westfall a Lieutenant. They were soon to see plenty of stiff fighting.

The hardest battle which they engaged in was on Todos Santos (All Saints) Creek, at a place called the Black Hills, sixteen miles from the town of Cotulla. Eighty redskins were near this spot, and had camped near a waterhole, which the whites wished to get to, as they had been three days without water. The plainsmen had come through prickly pear and cat-claw bushes only to find the Indians in their path. A stiff fight ensued. The Rangers circled around the savages for over an hour, and, after they had wounded a good many, charged the remainder. There was hand-to-hand fighting, but the red men were finally driven away, leaving twenty-two of their number dead upon the ground, among whom was their chief. “Big Foot” Wallace had dispatched him with a rifle, which had been presented to him by Colonel James Bowie, from whom the bowie knife took its name.

The redoubtable Wallace was one of the first to enlist in the Mexican War of 1846, and served under the famous Texan Jack Hays. The war, as you know, was brought on by a dispute over the boundary-line between Mexico and the United States, and, as many of the Rangers had old scores to settle with the Mexicans, they did good service in the campaign which ended in the capture of the City of Mexico. “Big Foot” Wallace was a second Lieutenant and acquitted himself nobly, particularly in the storming of Monterey, where he captured the very officer who had held the fatal bean-pot when the Texans were drawing for their lives at Solado. To his credit be it said that he let the fellow go.

The famous plainsman never married, although he was once engaged to a belle of Austin, Texas. He was taken ill, shortly after pledging his troth, and had the misfortune to lose all of his hair. As soon as he was able to travel, he left town and hid himself in a cave in the mountains. Here he resided until his hair grew out again. Meanwhile his sweetheart had grown tired of waiting for him and had married another man. As she turned out to be a terrible scold, he was lucky.

The old scout was the proud possessor of four dogs—half-bred specimens—which he prized very highly. He called them Rock, Ring, Speck and Blas, and was particularly fond of Rock, who was so well trained that he could follow an Indian by his scent. Wallace could always tell by the dog’s actions when Indians were around, and, when night came, would feel perfectly secure when his pets were on guard near by. The faithful animals would lie near him and would make no noise unless some wild man, or still wilder animal, approached.

One morning Rock gave unmistakable signs that Indians were near by, so the scout took his gun in order to watch for the redskins. As none put in an appearance, he told his dogs to “go on and find.” They rushed forward, yelping, and he soon heard them baying loudly. Coming to the spot, he saw an Indian down in a gully with the dogs around him. They were endeavoring to bite him, but he kept them from seizing him by throwing his blanket over their heads. Wallace raised his gun to fire, but, seeing that the poor redskin was afraid, he lowered his piece. Then, calling his pets to his side, he made signs to the Indian to come towards him.

When the redskin approached, “Big Foot” saw that he was unarmed, save for a small knife which he held in his right hand. This was broken in two.

“I have been a captive among the Comanches,” said the red man. “I have had nothing to kill game with and am nearly starved. Pray give me something to eat, Señor. I broke my knife while trying to open a terrapin.”

The old scout’s heart was touched by the sad spectacle before him. He took pity on the poor savage, and, leading him to his cabin, there gave him all that he could eat. He then turned him over to the Indian agent at San Antonio. This shows that, although keen in pursuing hostile redskins, the famous Ranger could be also kind and gentle to the unfortunate.

The fame of “Big Foot” Wallace was great among the pioneers of Texas; so great, in fact, that when he appeared at the Dallas fair in 1898, hundreds crowded around him in order to take his hand and talk with the famous scout. All had heard of the giant plainsman and wanted to see him. Shortly after Christmas, of this year, he caught a heavy cold, and died on the seventh of January, 1899, in his eighty-third year. To the very end his eyesight was so keen that he had no need of glasses, and he was apparently hale and hearty up to the last. Thus peacefully closed the career of one of the most adventurous men who ever hunted, fished, and fought the red men and Mexicans upon the wide plains of Texas.

Although buried in Medina County, where he had built his first log cabin, shortly after his death, a bill was passed in the legislature, so that his remains were taken up and were deposited in the State cemetery at Austin. This was a city which he had helped to build. He had also assisted in the construction of the first well which had been sunk there. He had been among those who had killed the last herd of buffalo on the plains near by.

Here—in the peace of the rolling plain—lies the last of the Great Captains of those gallant Rangers of the Texan prairie. His spirit slumbers where the coyote and Indian once followed the dun-colored herds of buffalo, and where—in the blue azure of the cloudless sky—the wheeling vulture watched the canvas-covered wagons of the emigrant trains, which brought a people who were to construct great and populous cities, where was then only dust and desolation.

CAPTAIN JACK HAYS:

FAMOUS TEXAN RANGER AND COMMANDER OF VALIANT BORDER FIGHTERS

IT was the year 1840. Texas was still a wild country, but the white settlers were pressing forward to farm and to raise cattle and horses. The redskins did not like it. The Comanches were particularly troublesome: they had been severely chastised by General Burleson and a Colonel John H. More, so they had sworn to revenge themselves upon the white-skinned invaders. With a large body of painted warriors they made a raid upon the defenseless settlers of Texas. They sacked and burned the town of Linnville, partly destroyed Victoria, and commenced their retreat back to the mountains with a great deal of plunder. There were six hundred warriors and many squaws in the party of invasion.

In going down from the mountains the Indians had kept between the rivers, where there were no settlements, and consequently they were not discovered until a short time before the attack upon Linnville. Runners were immediately sent to the various settlements, and men began to cut across the country in small squads from the valleys of the Colorado, the Guadalupe, and San Marcos. All of them were excited and eager for revenge, none more so than General Burleson, who—at the head of a large company—was just starting for the scene of action. When about one hundred and fifty men had arrived—among them settlers from Guadalupe and San Marcos—they started for the Indians.

Among those who came riding to the defense of the Texan frontier was a splendid looking, young fellow, who was the perfect picture of manly vigor. Clad in blue shirt, buckskin chaparejos (large trousers slipping over those usually worn) and high-heeled boots, the youthful Texan was a noble example of health and agility. A broad sombrero was upon his head, while a cartridge-belt hung about his supple waist. His name was John Coffee Hays; better known as Jack Hays: the Ranger.

This celebrated scout and Indian fighter had been named after General Coffee, who commanded a brigade in the army of General Jackson, at the battle of New Orleans. He had been born in Wilson County, Tennessee, in 1818, but had come to Texas in 1837, when but nineteen years of age. A surveyor by profession, he had taken up a residence at San Antonio, where he was employed to measure lands upon the frontier. His life in the open had given him a hardy constitution, and no one could endure more hardships or privations than he. His talent as a commander and director of rough-and-ready fighters early developed, and he was soon among the leaders of the borderers in Southwest Texas.

With a wild hurrah, which spelled REVENGE, in large letters, the Texans started after the Indians, and, after travelling for nine miles upon their broad trail, caught up with them near a winding stream called Plum Creek. Two redskins had been left by the invaders as spies. They were upon a ridge and sat quietly upon their horses, watching the approach of the white men, until the Texans were almost within gun-shot. Both of these Indians had on tall hats which they had obtained at the looting of Linnville. You can well imagine how comical they looked, for a black, stovepipe hat hardly becomes a wild rider of the plains. With his thick, long hair it never quite fits, and it certainly gives the red man a most grotesque appearance.

One of the Texan Rangers had a long-range gun. Dismounting, he cried out:

“Boys! Just watch me make the redskins hump!”

At the crack of his rifle, the Indians wheeled their horses in order to run away. As they did so, both lost their plug hats. They moved swiftly to their comrades, warning them of the approach of the Rangers, who spread out in a fan-shaped line, and kept on after the retreating braves.

Now began a hot fight. The redskins were well armed and made a good showing, but nothing could withstand the terrible fire of the Texan rifles. After an hour of rapid shooting the Rangers charged with a wild, ear-splitting whoop. Jack Hays was well up in front of the line as they did so. The Indians broke and galloped away in a disorganized mass.

Many of the redskins had on fine coats and boots which they had stolen during the raid. Some of them even carried umbrellas. Their spare horses and mules were packed with stolen goods, and these were driven ahead by the squaws, while the warriors fought the battle. After about a mile of fighting, the Comanches rallied in large force and a sharp contest ensued. But they could not stand the accurate rifle-fire from the Texans, and again fled in a scattered mass.

The pursuit continued in hot haste, for some high mountains were in front, and the Rangers knew that if the red men once reached them it would be quite possible for them to get away. Many of the pack-animals now gave out, were abandoned, and fell into the hands of the Texans. A boggy branch was in the path of the retreating braves. Several of the Indian ponies stuck fast in the mire: all of the pack-animals which had not yet been captured, became hard aground in the mud. The hindmost Indians used some of the poor, bogged animals as pontoons, and passed over the marsh by jumping from body to body. The Texans saw the predicament which the redskins were in and ran around the branch to the other side, where they cut off some of the Indians who were on foot, and killed them. The rest got away to the foot of the mountains, where the pursuit ended.

The Rangers collected at the spot where the fight had been most severe and where most of the Indians had been dispatched. Here they camped for the night. Some of the Texans had been wounded, but none had been killed. Thus the battle of Plum Creek came to a glorious end.

Jack Hays had certainly distinguished himself in this affair. He distinguished himself still more in 1842, when San Antonio was captured by the Mexicans. Shortly after the battle of Plum Creek, Jack had been commissioned by General Houston to raise a force for protection of the frontier. He had no difficulty in doing this and was soon in command of several hundred Texan Rangers. They were wild fellows; ready for any emergency that might arise.

The Mexicans had about fifteen hundred men in San Antonio. They were commanded by a General Wall. Jack Hays and his Rangers rode up near the town and “dared” the Mexicans to come out and fight. This they were quite willing to do, and soon marched from the adobe huts of San Antonio, crossed a creek in order to face the Texans, planted cannon, and the battle commenced. The Rangers acted upon the defensive, dodged the limbs of the pecan trees which the whistling bullets began to cut off, and prepared to meet the Mexicans when they should charge.

General Wall, the Mexican leader, thought to rout the Texans with his artillery fire, but, as he failed to do this, he made preparations to charge them. Cavalry was dispatched across the creek in order to cut off retreat upon this side, and a band of Cherokee Indians were posted upon a branch below. The Mexicans believed that they would have an easy time of it, but they little thought with what kind of men they had to deal. Before them were expert riflemen: all keen shots and frontier fighters. They made a good account of themselves.

The bugles sounded the charge and the Mexicans came on in fine style. They were massed together densely, and, for a time, it looked as if the Rangers would be annihilated by mere force of numbers. But the Texans lay down behind the creek bank, and poured such a volley of death and destruction into the ranks of the oncoming foe that their formation was broken up and they retreated in confusion and disorder to their batteries, posted upon elevated ground. A company of their cavalry also charged, but the horses would not come on before the sheet of lead which the Rangers pumped into them. Many lost their riders and ran among the infantrymen, knocking them down as they galloped wildly about. The Rangers cheered loudly, and Captain Jack Hays grinned from ear to ear.

As the Mexicans gathered behind their cannon, about fifty Texans, under Captain Nicholas Dawson, came up on the right flank. They heard the sound of firing and hurried towards it, only to find that they had run into Wall’s entire army. The Mexicans surrounded them immediately, and poured a destructive fire into their ranks. What could fifty do against one thousand? Two Texans made their escape. About twelve were captured. The rest fell before the bullets of the invaders. Dawson, himself, was one of the last to go down.

After this, the Mexicans seemed to think that they had had sufficient fighting. They retired towards San Antonio, followed by the exultant Texans. Captain Jack Hays with his Rangers fought the rear-guard near Hondo, but the pursuit was soon abandoned and the frontiersmen returned to their homes. They had lost less than one hundred in killed and wounded.

The Rangers retreated to a place called Somervell, and, not long afterwards, were ordered out to look for Indians, which were then pretty thick in the neighborhood, and were doing considerable damage. There were between thirty and forty men in this expedition, some of whom had just returned from Mexico, where they had participated in the battle of Mier. They moved off towards the northwest, struck the Medina River, and kept on up the stream towards the place where now stands the town of Bandera. Here they made camp, and next morning turned north towards the Bandera Pass, which they entered at about ten o’clock in the morning.

The Comanches were waiting for them. They had discovered the approach of the Rangers as they came through the open country, and laid an ambush for them in the Pass. The famous Bandera Pass is some five hundred yards in length by one hundred and twenty-five in breadth. The red men were concealed among the rocks and gullies on both sides of the gorge, and they allowed Captain Jack Hays with his Texan Rangers to get about one-third of the way through before they commenced firing from both sides at once. The Rangers were riding three abreast, and, when this fusillade commenced, were thrown into momentary confusion, because of the frightened and wounded horses, which endeavored to wheel and run back.

“Steady, boys, steady!” exclaimed Captain Jack Hays. “Get down from your horses and tie them to the brush. We can whip these infernal redskins if you will only keep cool.”

The Comanches greatly outnumbered the Rangers. They were armed with rifles and with bows and arrows. Many came down the Pass and rode up to close quarters with the Rangers. Pistols were freely used and many hand-to-hand conflicts took place. The Comanche chief was struck down by a ball from the rifle of “Kit” Ackland, who, himself, was wounded a moment later. It was a furious affair,—one of the most desperate Indian battles of the frontier.

One of the scouts—a fellow named Galbreath—was wounded by an arrow which struck him above the pistol-belt, on the left side. It penetrated as far as the hip bone. The hardy frontiersman made no complaint, but drew the missile out at once, loaded his gun, and continued to fight on as if nothing had happened. No one knew that he had been wounded until the worst part of the battle was over.

The Indians fought with great fury, but they soon saw that they could not drive the Rangers back, and so withdrew to the north end of the Pass. Here they buried their dead chieftain; killed all of their crippled horses, and held a scalp dance over the remains of their fallen comrades. Five Rangers had been killed and six had been wounded. The men under Jack Hays retreated to the south end of the Pass, where they buried those who had met their end, and attended to the wounded. Next morning they jogged along to San Antonio. The Indians did not pursue.

The battle of Bandera Pass had taught the red men that the Rangers were not to be trifled with. Captain Jack was continually on the lookout for them, and soon had another experience which he had no occasion to forget. It happened about a year after the famous battle at the Pass.

Fourteen Rangers—under Captain Jack—went upon a scout up the Neuces Canyon, with the expectation of meeting the Indians, who were then upon the war-path. After a long trip to the head of the river, without seeing any fresh Indian sign, Hays turned back down the canyon and camped. Next day the little party travelled onward, and—about noon—some one discovered a bee tree.

“Hold on, Captain!” said a Ranger. “Just wait a minute and I’ll chop all the honey out of that tree-top.”

“All right,” replied Hays. “Sail in and let’s see what you can do. Pull your bridles off, men. Let your ropes down and allow your horses to graze. We will rest here awhile and get some honey.”

The Ranger secured a small axe that was in the luggage on a pack-mule, and ascended the tree, for the purpose of chopping into the honey without cutting down this stout piece of timber.

About this time a large band of Comanches were coming down the canyon on a raid, and, seeing the trail of the Rangers, they followed it. The fellow in the tree had a good view of the valley, and, to his startled vision appeared a great body of redskins.

“Jerusalem, the Golden, Captain!” he sang out. “Yonder come a thousand Indians! Jerusalem!”

The Comanches were riding rapidly down the trail and made a good deal of dust. Hays sprang to his feet, as quick as a cat, and sang out his orders promptly, and to the point.

“Come out of that tree, there! Men, put on your bridles! Take up your ropes! Be ready for them! Be ready for them!”

All sprang to their horses, and were soon prepared to meet the onrush of the red men.

The Rangers were armed with Colt’s five-shooters, besides their rifles and a brace of holster single-shot pistols. Thus each man could fire nine shots. The Indians had never before come in conflict with scouts armed with the five-shooter, and they rode on exultingly, for they greatly outnumbered the whites. Jack Hays never ran from Indians, and had never yet been defeated by them.

The Comanches came forward, yelling loudly. They thought that it would be an easy matter to ride over the small squad of white men, who were drawn up around the old bee tree. Some of the scouts began to raise their guns, but Captain Jack cried out:

“Now, boys, do not shoot too quickly. Let the redskins come closer. Hit something when you do shoot. Stand your ground. We can whip them when we shoot. There is no doubt about that.”

The redskins thundered down upon the Rangers. When they were quite close, Captain Jack called:

“Fire, and let every shot tell!”

A sheet of flame burst from the rifles of the scouts, and so many ponies went down that the redskins divided to the right and left, discharging their arrows as they swept by.

At this moment Captain Jack sprang into his saddle.

“After them, men,” he cried. “Give them no chance to turn on us! Crowd them! Powder-burn them!”

Never was a band of redskins more surprised; for they expected the Rangers to remain near the tree, and upon the defensive. With a wild whoop, the followers of Jack Hays galloped after the running braves, keeping up a perfect fusillade with their pistols. The Comanches were thunderstruck at this turn of affairs. Some tried in vain to turn their horses and make a stand, but such was the wild confusion of running horses, popping pistols, and yelling Rangers, that they abandoned the idea of a rally, and sought safety in furious flight. In endeavoring to dodge the terrible five-shooters, some dropped their bows and round shields. Some kept off the Rangers by thrusting at them with their long lances.

The Indians ran for three miles before they could get away. The Rangers now rode back, well satisfied with the day’s work, and were surprised to see the result of their charge. The ground was fairly black with dead redskins. Many years afterwards a friendly Delaware Indian, called “Bob,” met the Comanche chieftain who led his warriors in this fight.

“Who did you battle with upon this occasion?” he asked.

“Ugh! Jack Hays and his Rangers,” gloomily replied the Comanche chief, shaking his head. “I never want to fight him again. Ugh! Ugh! His soldiers had a shot for every finger on their hands. I lost half of all my warriors. Ugh! Me never fight with him again.”

The Rangers soon afterwards had another tough little scrimmage with the Comanches. Fifteen of the Rangers were together at this time and they met an almost equal number of Indians, who were discovered at the foot of the mountains near the Frio River. The Indians were riding very tired horses, and the scouts thus gained upon them rapidly. The red men kept under cover, as much as possible, riding in ravines which had brushes and prickly pears around them, wherever they could do so.

Captain Jack and his men arrived at a little dried-up creek called Ci Bolo (buffalo creek) where they came close to the Indians, who were travelling in a ravine which hid them from view. The Rangers heard their leggings scraping against the brush, so, for some distance, they rode parallel with the savages, waiting for a chance to make a charge. The redskins could be heard talking to each other.

Suddenly the Comanches left the ravine and rode out in open view, not more than thirty yards away. They apparently were not aware of the presence of the scouts until a sharp crack warned them of their danger. At the first discharge, a redskin fell from his horse. The others attempted to run back to cover, yelling and shooting at the Rangers as they did so. But the scouts were too speedy for them and cut them off. One, however, seemed determined to get into the ravine. He disappeared into a thicket, at the edge of the gully, but a Ranger called Tom Galbraith dismounted, and, running to the edge of the thicket after the Indian had reached it, fired, and killed him.

The rest of the savages endeavored to make their escape across the open country, which was filled with scattered bunches of the prickly pear, cactus, and cat-claw bushes. Some were on mules, and others on jaded horses. The Rangers rode hard after them and fired with deadly effect. The Indians had no guns—only bows and arrows—so they did but little damage.

As the chase continued, one young Ranger called Stoke Holmes, who rode a fast little pony, singled out an Indian and cried out:

“Watch me, Boys! I’m going to rope him!”

While he was running along and was swinging his lariat, the pony attempted to jump a large bunch of prickly pears. He reared so high that his rider lost his seat in the saddle and fell backwards into the terrible cactus. Some of his comrades saw the mishap. They quickly shot the redskin and then came rapidly to his rescue, as he was unable to get up. The valiant scout was in a sad plight. His body had thousands of pear thorns in it, and his clothing was pinned to him on all sides. He was in agonies of pain. Pulling him away from the grip of the cactus, the Rangers stripped off all of his clothing, extracted all of the large thorns, and endeavored to pull out the small ones. But this was an impossibility, as there were thousands of small needle-like prickers in his flesh. With a sharp knife the Ranger shaved them close to the skin so that his clothing would not irritate his body by rubbing against them. The bold young fellow was hardly able to ride for several days thereafter. As for the rest of the redskins,—only three escaped.

Not many months later Captain Hays and his men were close upon a band of Indians, who had been located by his scouts in a bunch of cedars. The Rangers had not eaten all day, because they had been hot in pursuit.

“Dismount, men,” cried the captain. “Stay here a few minutes and partake of the cold bread and beef in your saddle-bags. But, boys, by no means raise any smoke, or the redskins will surely see it, and will know that the Rangers are upon their trail.”

“You’re right, Captain!” cried many. “We are half famished.”

Captain Hays always had a few Mexicans with him, as they were good guides and trailers, but, upon this occasion, they lighted their cigarettes after eating and dropped the hot ashes into a pile of leaves. Smoke was soon curling above the tree-tops.

“Curse it, boys!” cried Captain Hays. “Did I not tell you not to set fire to anything. Put that out, immediately!”

Some of the Rangers began to stamp upon the glowing fire. Hays was so angry that he struck the Mexicans with his quirt.

“Mount! Mount!” cried he. “We must go quickly after the redskins, as I fear that they have seen the tell-tale fire and have decamped.”

A furious run was now made for the tepees of the hostiles, which were a mile away. It was as the knowing Captain had anticipated. The Indians saw the smoke and knew that the Rangers were on their trail. They had fled, leaving many things in their camp, which were seized by the troopers. The Comanches had gotten safely away.

In 1844 Captain Hays and his men had a hard fight,—one of his hardest, in fact. It was near the Pedernales River. Upon this occasion he had gone out with fourteen men, about eighty miles northwest from San Antonio, for the purpose of finding out the position of the redskins and the probable location of their camp.

As the river came in view, about fifteen Indians were discovered. They soon saw the Rangers. Riding towards them, they shook their clenched fists and seemed to be desirous of having a fight. As the Rangers rode forward they retreated and endeavored to lead them towards a ridge which was covered with thick underbrush.

“Oh, no,” said Captain Hays, “I am too well acquainted with your wiles to move on. I know that you have an ambush laid for me and my men.”

It was hard to keep the Rangers from advancing to the attack.

“Go around the redskins to the second ridge,” cried the knowing Captain. “We can thus get the Indians in the rear.”

The Rangers were posted upon a long hillock, separated from the Indian position by a deep ravine. They were not here long before the redskins discovered who was before them, and, as they knew Captain Jack full well, decided to give up trying to catch him by stratagem. They now showed themselves to the number of seventy-five and cried out, in pigeon English:

“Come on, white men! Ugh! Come on! We get your scalps soon!”

“I’ll meet you right away!” answered Captain Hays.

He started down the hill immediately, followed by his entire command. He moved slowly, and, when the bottom of the ravine had been reached, turned—raced ahead at full speed—and came up in the rear of the Indians. While they had their eyes glued to the front, eagerly awaiting the advance from that direction, they were charged in the rear by the Rangers. The first fire threw them into instant confusion.

Yells, war-whoops, and shrill screams rent the air. The redskins scattered like quail, but, seeing the superiority of their own force, soon rallied.

“Draw your five-shooters, men,” cried the Captain of the Rangers. “We must meet the charge of the Comanches as we have always met them.”

The redskins were surrounding the Texans, so the Rangers were formed in a circle, fronting outwards. They were still mounted on their horses, and, for several minutes maintained that position without firing a shot. The Indians came on, yelping, and were soon near enough to throw their lances at the Texan frontiersmen.

_Crash!_

A spitting volley came from the five-shooters of the scouts and many a red man fell to the sod. Again a volley rang out and the Comanches ceased to advance, for the fire of the Rangers was fearfully accurate. The redskins fell back, but they were not defeated, and—in a few moments—again came on to the attack. The fight continued for an hour. Twice the Rangers charged and retreated to their first position. Their loads were now exhausted. The Comanche chief was rallying his henchmen for one more assault. Twenty-five of his painted warriors were prostrate upon the prairie.

The situation was critical for the Rangers, as many were badly wounded. Several had been killed.

Captain Hays, who was in the centre of the circle, now saw that their only chance was to kill the Indian chief.

“Have any of you men a loaded rifle?” he asked.

“I have,” answered a scout called Gillespie.

“Then dismount, my boy,” said the Ranger Captain, “and make sure work of that chief.”

Gillespie was a brave man. He had been badly wounded by an Indian spear which had gone clean through his body. He was hardly able to sit his horse, but, slipping to the ground, took careful aim and fired. As his rifle cracked, the chief fell head-long from his horse.

It is a strange thing, but Indians always lose heart when their leader is slain. Wailing loudly, the Comanches now left the field, pursued by a portion of the Texans. They carried their chieftain safely away, in spite of the fact that they were pressed very closely by the Rangers. Thirty Indians lay dead upon the battle-ground, while only two of the Texan frontiersmen had been killed. Five, however, were badly wounded; chief among whom was Gillespie, who had really ended the fight.

Captain Hays and his men went back to San Antonio well satisfied with the day’s work. A month later he had another desperate encounter with the Comanches.

With twenty of his men the gallant Ranger was on a scout near the “Enchanted Rock.” This was a depression in a hill, which was conical in shape, and was doubtless the crater of an extinct volcano. A dozen or more men could hide in this place and put up a stout defense against a great number of enemies, as the ascent was steep and rugged. Not far from the bottom of this curious hillock the Rangers were attacked by a large force of Comanches.

When the first shot was fired, Captain Hays was some distance from his men, looking about in order to see whether or not he could discover the whereabouts of the Indians. As he turned to run towards the “Enchanted Rock,” he was cut off and was closely pursued by a number of red warriors.

The nervy Captain Jack dashed madly up the side of the hill and entrenched himself in the extinct crater. He was determined to make the best fight that he could, and to “sell out” as dearly as possible. The redskins arrived upon the summit shortly after he had entrenched, and, after surrounding the famous Captain of Rangers, set up a most hideous howling.

“There, Captain Jack,” said one. “Ugh! We get Big Smoky Stick this time. Ugh! We get scalp this time! Ugh! Ugh!”

But Captain Jack was game. Each time that the muzzle of his rifle would appear over the rim of the crater the warriors would dodge backwards, knowing that to face his unerring aim was sure death.

The Indians grew bolder and made a charge. Hays fired his rifle, killing a redskin at the discharge,—then shot his five-shooter at the yelping braves. Each bullet found a victim, so the redskins withdrew, which gave the gallant Captain a chance to reload. Again they came on, but again they were met with the same cool bravery. Howling dismally, they again drew away and made ready for another attack.

Suddenly wild cheering sounded from below the Ranger Captain. Shots came thick and fast. Wild yells arose. His comrades were coming to his rescue.

The Rangers had heard the rifle-fire upon the top of the hill and knew that their Captain was surrounded. So they were fighting their way up to him, in spite of the odds. Soon they came cheering and yelling to the edge of the crater, itself, to be greeted by the cool remark:

“Boys, I’m sure glad to see you! I was nearly all in!”

When the Comanches saw that the Big Chief had been rescued they retreated down the steep sides of the “Enchanted Rock.” They met their comrades, who had been badly cut up, and, deciding that the Rangers were too good for them, withdrew. Wild cheers welled from the crater of “Enchanted Rock,” and loud were the hurrahs for Texas Jack, the gallant and intrepid Ranger.

The war with Mexico found Captain Jack Hays ready and willing to march against the hated “Greasers.” He and his famous Rangers fought in nearly all of the desperate battles of the campaign. Many of his faithful friends and companions fell before the leaden missiles of the foe. But Captain Jack had a charmed life: he came through unscathed, returned to his beloved Texas, and then moved to California, where he was elected Sheriff of San Francisco County. He was very efficient as an officer and left an excellent record behind him.

In 1860 he had his last Indian fight. The Piute Indians in the state of Nevada declared war upon the whites, in that year, and committed many depredations. They massacred Major Ormsby and his men and spread terror broadcast. At this time there were rich mines in Virginia City, and among the many men who were employed there was an old Texan Ranger, Captain Edward Storey, a man of great personal courage. He was also very popular among the people.

“This Indian fighting has to stop, immediately,” said the old fellow, his fighting blood again boiling.

At once a company was raised, called the Virginia Rifles. Colonel Jack Hays heard of it, and immediately came over from California in order to enlist. With him were several other bold spirits who were eager for the excitement of a brush with the redskins. They marched to Pyramid Lake, not far from the present town of Reno, and there met the exultant braves,—about one thousand strong. They were flushed with their recent victory over Major Ormsby and his men, and thought that they could easily defeat the whites.